


Bondstuck: With The World At Stake

by TinyAngryPuppy



Series: BONDSTUCK [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Action/Adventure, Complete, F/F, F/M, James Bond - Freeform, Secret Agent, Spy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyAngryPuppy/pseuds/TinyAngryPuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>COMPLETE!! When a cyberterrorist troll holds the world for ransom, the top law enforcement agencies know just who to call: Agent Dave Strider. Partnered with one of the top Legislacerators on the planet, Terezi Pyrope, Strider embarks on an adventure spanning the globe. But can he really trust his alien partner? And what is her connection to international criminal Vriska Serket? A host of dangerous enemies stand between Strider and the psionic mastermind behind this threat of global destruction. The only thing that’s clear is that with the world at stake… nothing is as it seems.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. THE LAST TRICK or GEM QUALITY

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to Roachpatrol for just being the best the best the BEST. Hang in there.

After a long career in the military, Cmdr Dave Strider RN (ret) has an almost religious respect for sleep. Going without a decent night’s rest most of the time for ten years has imbued in him an appreciation that transcends the mundane. On a given night, it would take a jet engine to jostle him awake-- and indeed on occasion it has-- and in his luxurious bedroom, complete with an antique four-poster he bought at an estate sale for the irony but which ended up one of the best purchases he’d ever made, he usually falls asleep in about forty-five seconds.

But on this night Dave Strider couldn't sleep. It’s four thirty in the morning and there isn’t the slightest trace of sunlight coming through the blinds, nor the barest suggestion of cheerful songbirds chirping. With a sigh, he rolls over and attempts to forget what’s distracting him from his much-needed rest. But her long black hair still tickles his nose, and her light breathing still grates on him like a new single by Lady Gaga. It’s been two weeks since a glimpse of her legs has set his heart into palpitations, and one more still since the merest glance at her forest-green eyes caused his breath to hitch. In the same way a boy might grow tired of a toy he’d anticipated owning for months, Dave Strider has grown tired of Jade Harley.

He gives up trying to fall back asleep and rolls out of bed, landing gingerly on the balls of his feet. He pads quietly towards the bathroom to brush his teeth, but he’s stopped by the sound of Jade awakening. 

“...Dave? What’s going on? What time is it?” she inquires sleepily, rubbing her eyes.

“I felt like going for a run, it’s nothing. I’ll make breakfast when I get back, you just go back to sleep,” replies Dave, praying she doesn’t offer to come with him.

“Wait a sec, I’ll come with you!” she offers, stretching her freckled arms convincingly. She runs a hand through her long, black hair and reaches for her glasses-- she’d not been able to buy new contacts since coming to England, and she’s really quite nearsighted.

“No, really, it’s stupidly early and we were up late. I just couldn’t sleep, I was, er-- I was so upset thinking about you having to go back to America.”

“Aww, what a sweetheart,” says the girl, laying back down. “Ok, you can go on your own this time. But I want blueberry pancakes for breakfast and we don’t have any berries left. Think you can pick some up on your run?”

“Darling, it’s not yet five, nothing’s open. I’ll get some berries today and we can make your favorite pancakes tomorrow, alright?” Dave rubs his belly absently.

“...Oh. Yeah, you’re right. OK, tomorrow then,” and she closes her eyes. 

Dave walks into the bathroom, ignores the cold tiles’ sting on his feet, and grits his teeth. He’s just about had it with the way she _pretends_ to let things go like that-- she’ll bring it up the next time she wants anything from him. Her memory is comprehensive and _by God_ is she self-entitled. He needs to do something about her. She still has four days until she needs to leave and he doesn’t think he can last that long.

Upon leaving the bathroom, he throws on some running shorts and a long-sleeved shirt and fishes through his computer desk drawer for his iPhone running armband. He had no real intention of doing any serious exercise at all, he just needs an excuse to get out of here without Jade following him around like a whingeing puppy. He leaves his house and heads for the park at a leisurely pace. 

He holds the home button on his phone down for a few seconds until the voice control screen pops up. “Call _Vriska Serket,_ ” he enunciates, and the phone begins to dial. He jogs along, thinking about what he’s going to say, and fondly regarding Vriska’s custom ringback song: _I’m Shipping Up To Boston_ by the Dropkick Murphys. Just one more thing he loves about the enigmatic troll woman: her taste in Punk is _exquisite._

“This better be good,” she begins, “I’m _busy!”_

In the background comes the sound of a woman moaning.

“Jesus, Vriska, what the hell are you-- did I get you at a bad time?”

“Oh, no, it’s just past noon here. I’m in Taipei,” Vriska explains. The moaning sounds grow louder. Dave feels slightly uncomfortable with this, though also equally intrigued.

“And what, pray tell, are you doing in Taipei?”

“Your human philosopher, the one they call The Little Wayne, said it best-- ‘fuck bitches; get money’. Words to live by if you ask me. I might even fuck a dude every now and again but I prefer the ladies. Call me a romaaaaaaaantic,” she draws out her a’s even as the woman in the background begins actually _screaming_.

“Are you-- right now-- that’s not porn, is it.” He’s stopped running now.

“Nope,” comes the reply. 

“ _Aaaaaahhhhhh!”_ comes the other reply.

Dave hangs up.

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

Upon returning home, Dave is alerted by means of his olfactory glands of a disaster taking place in his kitchen. Untangling his headphone cords, he stalks in to find Jade standing in front of the stove, in the buff save for an apron, looking particularly unsexy trying to put out a fire that has started in a frying pan. “Oh goddammit... I was gonna surprise you with breakfast but this fucking thing...”

“Were you making poor knights?”

“No, it’s french toast, I didn’t know if you’d had them before, I mean, here in the UK,” She’s obviously fighting back tears, skin glowing red where flecks of hot oil have hit her. 

“Aside from the fact that France is only two hundred miles away, if we’re thinking of the same french toast, we English invented it. Only we call it poor knights. Here, give me that,” He grabs a dish towel, soaks it in water from the sink, throws it over the flaming pan and averts his face from the steam. Jade stumbles back, nervously wrinkling her apron, as Dave maneuvers the whole mess to the sink and begins wiping his hands dry and free of grease. He notices some speckled eggshells on the counter and his brows furrow. “Did you use the eggs in the blue carton?”

“Yeah, I liked the pattern. What kind of chicken lays those?”

“Those were quail eggs. I was saving those,” Dave adjusts his shades, drums his fingers on the countertop. His cool facade is slipping.

“Aw, geez, sorry. I hope you can get some more...” she simpers at him, but the effect wore off long ago-- even naked in an apron she’s about as arousing to his libido as the remains of her attempt at breakfast cuisine was to his appetite.

“Yeah, I can get some more. In two weeks, when the farm I order them from in fucking _Durham_ sends me another dozen--”

He’s cut off by the buzz of Jade’s cell phone going off a split second before the ringtone kicks in. Dear God, it’s a new single by Ke$ha-- even if he were deaf he’d know by the inimitable pain in his molars that flares up when horrible music is playing nearby. Jade just looks at it.

“...Aren’t you going to get it?”

“In a sec. I just really love this song!”

Twelve seconds later, Capt Jade Harley, USAF is ejected bodily from the home of Dave Strider, a soiled apron all that protects her from the morning chill. Landing unceremoniously on her rump in the frosty grass, she opens her mouth to object but before she can say anything Dave calls after her, “I’ll have your shit mailed!” and slams the door.

 

  
  


O+O+O+O+O

 

Strider pulls into his parking spot just as the final beats of the song he was listening to fade out. This is a good sign-- not that he puts too much stock in superstition, but he hates turning off his car in the middle of a song; the sudden silence is like a slap to the face. He gets out, smooths his sensible two-button jacket and fixes his tie in the driver’s sideview mirror. Attaché case in hand, he strolls towards the unremarkable building in his usual aloof manner. He passes reception, feeling generous enough to give the intern at the desk a quick nod that just about stops her heart. He passes the steno pool, scoping for new faces and finding none, before taking the stairs up to the third floor. He no longer has an office in the conventional sense, as he’s no longer a conventional officer. He is a special agent, and his accommodations are special to match.

The third floor is carpeted in a nondescript tan, with cream-colored walls and light fixtures that wouldn’t offend even the most self-righteous of interior design fanatics. The warm, energy-saving bulbs spill luminescence along a hallway full of doors that have neither numbers or names. Dave’s is the fourth one on the right. He doesn’t know offhand who’s in the others. He enters to find the small room that is usually occupied by his secretary by this time of the morning deserted; desk clear, and coffee maker empty. He'd rather liked his previous executive assistant, a cheery post-college-but-still-young brunette who over the months she worked for him learned how to make his coffee _just so_ and on that merit alone he brought her gifts from every job he went on. She had been in grad school for... something, but he never asked too many questions. It wouldn’t have been fair, she hadn’t been allowed to ask questions about him. And anyway, he never really found her attractive enough to seriously pursue.

He spies a note on the desk. 

  
  
_Dear Mr. Strider,_   


  
_Circumstances have called Ms. Denison away from your desk for a time. Due to the undetermined length of her absence, we’ve elected to hire you a new secretary immediately and find a new position in the building for her upon Ms. Denison’s return. At 2 o’clock this afternoon you will be able to meet a selection of candidates for the position individually in the 2nd floor parlor. All come with the highest of recommendations from their previous employers and plenty of experience._   


  
_-Human Affairs_   


There’s a loopy signature that Dave can’t read at the bottom, followed by an internal phone extension. He continues into his office and drops his case on his desk before slumping into his comfortable leather chair. There’s a neatly typed schedule on his desk, as if he couldn’t handle one day on his own, and a still-steaming traveler’s mug of coffee on the desktop. Well. That’s something at least.

The day proceeds as normal. He spends most of the morning at the basement shooting range either practicing or observing his junior agents’ shooting and providing advice for their improvement. Towards lunchtime he drops by the office of one of his friends in accounting and hands him ten quid and a note with his order on it for the Lunchtime Sandwich Run, a responsibility tantamount to the messianic, which on this particular day will be weighing down the accountant’s Fiat 500 with about forty sandwiches and several kilos of salads and crisps. 

With that done, he retires to his office to listen to his new podcasts while compiling the data from his last job into a neat report. He likes to work through lunch-- he has no trouble multitasking and he finds the idea of getting more work done on his lunch break than during proper work hours appealingly ironic. Someone else’s secretary brings the crisp white paper bag up to his desk with the change from his ten, which he refuses to accept and tells her to put towards the next bottle of whatever is causing her to smell so delightful. She’s blushing as she leaves. Munching happily at his sandwich and tapping his fingers in time with a new DJ set from one of his favorite house artists, he barely notices the elaborate timepiece hanging on the wall-- another ironic antique he’s developed a real affection for-- edging towards two o’clock. When the thing rings out with a solid _dong dong,_ he’s actually startled.

Not bothering to tidy, he dashes by the mirror only long enough to straighten his tie and heads down the stairs to the second floor. Passing the normal agents’ offices at double time, he reaches the parlor in record time and swings the door open.

Three pairs of eyes are on him immediately. Two are human but the third, surprisingly, belong to a troll... a troll he recognizes. He pretends not to notice it’s the waitress from Eridan Ampora’s hotel party only about a month ago. What the hell is she doing in London?

“Okay. Why was I late?” he asks the room at large.

One of the girls, a blonde in a low-cut sweater and slacks, replies immediately. “You’re a busy man. Whatever you were doing was no doubt very important.” She gives him a charmingly saccharine smile. He’s not charmed. 

“Thanks for playing, but sadly you’re rather wide of the mark. Any other guesses?” Dave leans against the wall and crossed his arms.

The second one, a pretty redhead in her late twenties, ventures to speak. “You had too much to do and just lost track of time?”

“That’s exactly correct, but I’m awarding points for originality too. What about you, what do you think?” He turns to the troll.

“You’re self-indulgent to a fault, completely unwilling to rest until whatever you’re working on is done. You’re as vain as they they come, too-- you’ve probably restarted the project you’re working on three or four times. I guarantee if a woman came into your office today you had to hit on her. Not that you’re vain for no reason, I wouldn't be surprised if you held a couple of company records for something generically masculine like shooting or parallel parking. But mostly you’re late because it never occurred to you to be anything _but_ late,” replies the troll girl. Dave bothers to give her a second look. She’s beautiful, features delicate and almost Asian-looking, with long curls of black hair and orange ram-like horns curving forwards. She’s tall for a troll, with curves that could kill, but she’s wearing a ladies’ skirt suit in maroon with a conservative neckline. The Ares emblem pin on her lapel sparkles. Her expression is impassive but not apathetic, her posture relaxed but not resigned, her tone confident but not superior. 

Dave glances at the other two. “Thank you for coming, ladies. Best of luck in your future opportunities,” and turns back to the troll as the two human women sullenly depart.

“Aradia, so good to see you again. I don’t believe I got your last name when we met briefly last month.”

She sits up, attempting unsuccessfully to hide her glee at being hired so easily. “It’s Megido, but don’t bother remembering. It’s not a name that carries much clout among trolls.” She glances down briefly, then meets his gaze with her big yellow eyes. “I’m overjoyed for the opportunity. Sorry about--”

“Don’t mention it. Have you been shown around?”

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

Dave settles back in his chair after giving Aradia a quick tour of the places she’d need to know. Turns out she’d been debriefed after the Ampora job along with much of the other hotel staff and she’d hit it off with the agent who’d been doing the interview, and having no place better to go, came to England with him. After the fun wore off she moved out and found her own place, doing odd jobs for a temp agency, which led her here. She was extremely qualified for the job, her lowblood upbringing preparing her for a wide variety of service-oriented jobs, and came with the highest recommendations from troll and human alike. 

At the moment she’s happily arranging her items on her desk with efficient little gestures and just generally being a remarkably competent ray of sunshine. He finishes gathering his things together and steps out of his office into her small room between it and the door to the hallway. She’s just sitting at her desk, smile generating enough warmth to power Greater London, and it takes her a second to regard him.

“I’ve never had a desk before. This is amazing. Also, I’m not going to fuck you, so don’t get any ideas.”

Dave quirks and eyebrow at her. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say that sounds like a challenge.”

“It’s not. I’m seriously, definitely, absolutely not under any circumstances going to fuck you. I am going to be the best secretary you’ve ever had though.”

“Well then. Have a fantastic evening, miss Aradia Megido.”

“You as well, special agent Dave Strider.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special note: I've received a range of comments about my/Dave's treatment of Jade in the beginning of this story. I'd like to offer an explanation, so as not to be construed as "misogynistic," which is a dangerous word to have directed at you in anywhere but in Fandom in general.
> 
> When writing this scene, it was my intention to characterize Jade as just as sweet and lovely as she'd ever been in the first story, and have Dave almost inventing flaws as a way of distancing himself from her, looking for any excuse to separate. Part of the reasoning is due to the influence of James Bond novels on this story, which is at least as much as that of Homestuck canon, wherein Bond had exactly this kind of propensity. Part of it is to develop Dave himself as a womanizer who doesn't necessarily make great life choices or have top-notch people skills. It's important to the plot that Dave is not thought of as a perfect person. Essentially what I'm saying here is this: I've scrutinized this scene many times and I can see how it'd be easy to misread it as me (the author) being a complete pig, but I didn't want to change it. If you don't like it, I hope instead of giving up the story altogether you give it a couple chapters and see if it doesn't make you smile at another point.


	2. DRAGON SPOOR or AMIDST THE ALIEN CANE

Strider stares at the ceiling.

It’s not a particularly nice ceiling. There’s nothing extraordinary about it. It is, however, the most interesting thing in his life right now.

It’s been a mild, drizzly summer and the weather is getting to him. He hasn’t been on an interesting mission in a month, and the monotony is getting to him. He’d love to be on a sandy beach somewhere, cold beer in one hand and tanned saronged chick in the other, getting a nice sunglasses tan going. He coasts on this fantasy for a little while. After five minutes, he’s taking the idea of a vacation seriously. He’s only used a few of the dozens of paid leave days he has saved up, after all, and London summers are pretty much bullshit.

The anonymous island girl is teaching him some Latin dance steps on the warm sand when he’s yanked from his vision by the buzzer on his desk. In a crisply rehearsed, befittingly secretarial voice Aradia speaks. “Sir, the chief operations officer to see you.”

“Oh. Sure, tell him welcome,” replies Strider, keenly aware that on the other side of the heavy oak door Aradia is wearing a low-cut maroon V-neck and if you dropped a penny down her cleavage you wouldn’t hear it hit the bottom for a good fifteen seconds. She has her hair in a bun today but the few wayward curls that have escaped torture him and she knows it. In fact, torturing him has sort of become her MO. She knows she’s beautiful, and she knows he’s noticed, and she just _loves_ to remind him of this fact. 

Dave stands as the boss walks in, unlit pipe already clenched in his teeth and jacket apparently collected by Aradia somewhere along the way. The other agents have taken to calling this man “Dad” in a way that vaguely unsettles Dave, so he just calls him “Sir” out of a mixture of respect and reflex. 

“I’ve got some good news!” he begins.

“Please tell me I’m being transferred to our Jamaican branch. I’d settle for the south of France, or hell, even the middle.” He reaches for a lighter emblazoned with a Royal Navy fleet logo that he keeps in his desk.

“Well, you’re on the right track-- suffice to say you will be doing some traveling. I have a mission that’s got your name all over it, and I do mean _your name_.” He accepts the lighter and breaks his speech to get his pipe going. “It seems a certain international troll law enforcement agency knows as ‘The Legislacerators’ has become aware of your involvement in the Eridan Ampora case and asked for you by name to assist one of their best in a certain case concerning a former subordinate of his. A certain Sollux Captor. You know of him, yes?”

“Er, vaguely sir. Only what I’ve seen on the news. He seemed much less concerned with attracting attention than Ampora did.”

“Yes, well. Bit of a computer genius, this one, and apparently well-connected enough to have a worldwide network of supporters. We’re looking into a possible, though unlikely, connection between him and Feferi Peixes. It’ll take an organization like The Legislacerators to take him down, without a doubt,” He frowns. “Anyhow, you’ll get that sunshine you’ve been wanting, your first rendezvous is in Madrid.”

“Is that where I’m meeting my new partner?”

“Oh, dash it all, I forgot! She’s actually here right now! What was your new secretary's name again?”

“Aradia,” says Dave, pressing the button on the intercom, “could you send in the other visitor please?”

The door swings open silently and a small figure enters. Dave’s wildest expectations do nothing to prepare him for what he sees; up to this point he’s only seen traditional troll clothing in historical photos, the vast majority instead opting for human clothing with minor modification. But when he sees the Legislacerator for the first time, everything suddenly clicks into place. For the first time since they came to earth all those years ago, he really feels as though he’s looking at an alien. 

She’s wearing a sort of tailcoat-dress ensemble in turquoise and red, some parts sweeping and some form-fitting, and in one hand she holds a white cane, the handle of which is fashioned after a dragon’s head. Her eyes are concealed by a pair of ruby sunglasses, thin and wide and flared dramatically, and her hair is short and relatively well-kempt. Only about five feet tall and thin as a rail, she still manages to look imposing, not unlike naval officers he’s known in the past. She’s frowning as she steps into the room, seemingly not relying on her cane for much more than bravado, but once she’s in the middle of the office his head tilts to one side and she _grins_ and Dave’s never seen teeth this sharp on a land-dwelling troll. She’s not looking at him-- more looking _past_ him-- as she speaks. 

“So you’re Dave Strider,” she begins, inhaling through her nose, “the hired gun who took down Ampora.” Her accent is Spanish, the twang of her speech sharp and smoky like guitar notes.

“Yeah, that’s me. Terribly sorry, I wasn’t given your name-- I don’t even have a case dossier yet,” says the agent. 

“No, I don’t expect you would. This case will be unique in a variety of ways, chiefly in that it will be handled by _my_ office. Your engineers are reconfiguring your personal captchalouge system to our servers as we speak, and for the duration of this mission you will not contact anyone associated with this office for any reason, with a couple of key exceptions. We’ve given your secretary a special phone and she’ll be accompanying us to Madrid, where she will stay at headquarters. 

“We have some of the very best people in the field-- present company excluded,” she gives the chief a curt nod but misses actually facing his direction by a few degrees, “But this is one of the biggest cases we’ve ever handled on Earth. We were preparing to move on Ampora even as the Americans moved first, but upon hearing of the single agent who was crucial to the success of that mission, we thought why not add one more to our ranks? We are an organization of justice, Dave Strider, and we do what it takes to get justice. You may call me Legislacerator Terezi Pyrope. ”

Dave is impressed by the troll woman’s speech, not that one could tell by his expression. Somewhere during her last few sentences it hit him that she’s blind as a bat, but for some reason that doesn’t really bother him. “Sounds like my kind of place. So the three of us leave for Madrid… When, exactly?”

“This evening at half past eight, I have a ride arranged. That should give you time to pack and read the rules.”

“Rules? I rather don’t like the sound of that.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s nothing bad.” She twists around and calls through the office door, “Aradia, love, could you bring the contract in please?”

The secretary walks in holding one two-inch-thick three-ring binder. She places it on the desk’s surface, gives Dave a cursory tight-lipped smile, regards Terezi with discomfort, and beams at the boss all in the space of a second or two, and is gone a moment later. 

“Think you can have it read by then?” the Legislacerator cackles, pointy-toothed grin gleaming cruelly.

Strider glances at his boss’ impassive expression, decides against his first choice in responses, and opts instead to say, “...I’ll get the highlights from Aradia. In the meantime, have you had lunch? I’d like to get to know you a bit before we set out, and I know just the _best_ grill around here with an Alternian specials menu.”

“Yes, that sounds very nice.” The short troll adjusts her sharp red glasses. “You will drive?”

“Er, yeah, of course,” Dave is suddenly aware he’s been standing up this whole time. He gives the chief a solid nod, says, “If that’s all, sir,” and cross from behind his desk over to Terezi, proffering an elbow. She glares at it-- or more _through_ it-- and frowns.

“What are you doing, human? I’m blind, not retarded.”

The chief just smiles at them. “Try not to get into too much trouble, kids. Oh, and Strider?”

“Sir?” Dave stops in his tracks, elbow still helplessly suspended.

“I’m so proud of you.”

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

It’s a fantastically shitty day out, so Strider leaves the soft top of his convertible Aston Martin DB9 up. He’d bought the convertible upon being promoted to Senior Agent, liking the irony of owning one in London of all places, but unlike his ostentatious Swiss clock and his intricately carved mahogany bed he’s not too happy with his decision in retrospect. Driving with the top up is loud and drowns out the crucial midrange of whatever music he’s listening to, and putting it down is out of the question the vast majority of the time.

Settling into the driver’s seat, he keeps one eye on Terezi, who sort of positions herself in such a way that momentum and gravity allow her to fall into the leather bucket seat to his left. She gives a little puff of satisfaction and smiles broadly. “This chair smells like moobeast skin!”

“It’s leather, yeah,” says Dave resignedly, long ago having stopped finding humor the the ridiculous names trolls call Earth’s fauna. Terezi busies herself sniffing various components of his dashboard, even giving a startled coo when the satnav screen flashes on. As long as she doesn’t try to lick anything--

“Aw, hey! What are you doing!?” demands Dave, as Terezi draws her pointy tongue across the LCD screen.

“Makes it easier to smell,” grins the small woman.

“Er, well, sorry but could you please not lick my car? I can describe it to you if you want.” He pushes his shades up the bridge of his nose.

“No thanks, Dave Strider, I think I’ve got a clear enough picture,” she replies, and then begins to cackle quietly to herself.

The five-minute drive passes uneventfully, and without any particular preponderance of speech; Dave is aware that his hunger is affecting his temper and Terezi is shaping up to be a serious liability to his cool. He finds himself unable to help glancing at her every time he checks the mirrors prior to a turn, her expression rotating through a kaleidoscope of smiles and frowns for no discernible reason. As he arrives at the restaurant, pretentiously named _fourthirteen_ after the street address _,_ she begins to “look” around by tossing her nose to and fro _._

“What is it?”

“This place, this restaurant. It’s called four thirteen?” 

He circles the parking lot, looking for a space. It seems full.

“Yeah, why, have you heard of it?”

“These numbers are very important for trolls. We call them the Numbers Of The Blind Prophets.” She settles her head in a thirty-degree slant away from Dave, exposing the smooth curve of her jaw to his appraisal. He finds a spot facing the street, pulls in, cuts the power.

“Huh. Might be a troll-owned place, I don’t know. Not a lot of restaurants have a menu of Alternain dishes, so it would--” he’s interrupted when she claps a hand over his mouth with a _pap_.

“Ssh!” Her sightless eyes narrow as her nostrils flare. “Something’s about to happen!”

And then something happens. Around the corner comes speeding a windowless white Ford Transit at about 70 mph. It takes the corner so sharp it almost flips over, then crunches back down on all four wheels and begins speeding down the street against traffic, causing several cars to skid out. One hits a postbox; an explosion of envelopes catches an updraft and wings skyward like startled doves. Pyrope faces right at Strider and yells “ _Go!_ ”

So he goes.

Dave turns the key, shifts into neutral, mashes the pedal until the engine screams up to 4,200 revs, then pounds into first gear like it killed his dog. Leaving a cloud of burned-up tire in his wake, he bounds over the divider and across the sidewalk and jackknifes onto the street in pursuit. He’s up to sixty in a matter of seconds and soon the white van is back in sight-- or smell, where Pyrope is concerned-- and weaving thorough traffic like a maniac he closes in. The small troll shouts in his ear, “Pull alongside and match his speed!”

Dave complies quickly, drawing up the bonnet of his Aston to match the Ford’s front bumper. The van is still to his left, in the oncoming lane of traffic. Miraculously, he’s able to keep it steady for a few seconds, which is all Terezi needs. To Dave’s dismay she swipes the pointed snout of her dragon head cane across his soft-top roof, cutting a sizable hole, which she proceeds to jump through. 

Strider had been trying to keep his eyes on the road but at this, he fully turns to look out the passenger’s side window to see her on the side of the van, anchored by her cane stabbed through the side of it. She swings herself atop the speeding vehicle and lands on her feet, remarkably steadily, cane in hand. With a flawless sweep of what must be one of the sharpest blades Earth has ever knows she slices the roof of the Transit clean open and jumps inside.

At this point Dave can’t follow her actions anymore but rather than try to rationalize the ridiculousness of what he’s just seen he decides not getting into a traffic collision seems like a better idea. He avoids rear-ending a crappy 80’s Prelude and notices the Transit is slowing to a stop. He yanks the car onto the shoulder-- striped for parking, mercifully-- leaves it running and leaps out, crossing to the van in a matter of seconds. 

He’s already drawing his Walther PPK when he gets to the driver’s side door, but before he can get there the side door slides open. An unconscious body flies out of it, followed quickly by two more. Lastly, Terezi Pyrope exits with a little hop. A good eight inches shorter than the shortest thug, she’s holding her cane like a sword and giving the first authentic frown Dave’s seen from her. 

“Dave Strider. What do you do with people like this in Human England?”

“People like what? What did they do? _‘Human England!?’_ ” Dave keeps his gun ready, but his adrenaline levels are falling and reason is returning to his mind, along with a growing frustration.

“There were several bags of your paper money and one human female in a compromised state. I deduced she is not a criminal because she is not wearing any clothes,” Terezi explains, grinning. “My skills of deduction are second to none.”

“Okay, so they’re bank robbers. We call the police and let them handle it. I’m starving,” Dave suggests, knowing there’s no way it’ll work.

“There’s no time for food, Dave Strider, when justice has yet to be done. How shall we execute them?”

Dave has a bit more trouble staying cool than usual at this. “Execute them? Christ, no, no executing! The police will take them to a station and they’ll go to prison, they’re not going to kill them!”

“Oh,” Says Terezi. “I see.” 

She looks a little bit disappointed.

Dave can hear sirens approaching. “Look, just-- can we just go get some fucking lunch?”

“Very well. I’m pretty hungry too,” Terezi begins walking back toward the DB9, still grumbling where Dave left it, then stops and turns around. Looking vaguely towards Strider, she frowns again. “Can’t I just execute one of them?”

“No!”

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

Here’s what Dave learns about Terezi Pyrope at lunch between savage pointy-toothed bites of the prohibitively raw and/or rotten constituents of her Alternian meal:

  

  * She’s a lawyer
  

  * She’s also a bounty hunter
  

  * Bitch be  _crazy_
  



And that’s it. They arrive at the restaurant at about 11:30, and by the time they leave at 10 to 1 Dave’s exhausted. He drops the small troll off in the parking lot, where a nervous-looking young male troll in a similar teal-blue suit picks her up in a Bentley and coasts away. 

He drifts back to his office and opens the door to find Aradia reorganizing the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet in the corner. She’s bent over at the hip, cream-colored pencil skirt drawn taught against her shapely rear, and she makes no move upon Dave entering the room save withdrawing a manila file and reinserting it in a different place in the drawer. Surreptitiously, she looks behind her. “Oh. Good afternoon, sir. Pleasant lunch?”

It takes Dave a couple seconds to respond. “I may be needing some assistance in updating my will. In the meantime, did you make any headway on that binder?”

“Please, sir, you’ve really gotta start having a bit of faith in me.” Her American accent reminds him of Jade’s with a little twinge, but not in his heart. She stands, making a little display of turning around before drawing a typed sheet off the desk and handing it to Dave. “Here’s the short version. Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure,” and she slowly, _slowly_ bends over to continue her filing. 

Dave makes his way back to his office, glancing over the bulleted list of directives. It’s simple stuff, if not a bit demanding-- The Legislacerators aren’t an elite organization for nothing-- and none of it strikes him as particularly egregious. He folds it in quarters and tucks it into his jacket’s inner pocket. The intercom buzzes and Aradia informs him she’ll be heading home to pack, having completed her voluntary filing endeavor. She reminds him he “really oughta too” and wishes him a good afternoon. Gathering up his various paperwork and small electronics, he heads out to the parking lot. Gritting his teeth as he lays eyes on the long tear in the soft top of his DB9, his anger flares as he pictures Pyrope’s cackling face and vows to somehow, _someway_...

Keep himself from ever bringing it up.


	3. FACTS AND FIGURES or I HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR

 

Strider barely has to step into his house to get everything he needs to leave the country; he has a duffel bag packed and ready to go in the closet by the door at all times. He grabs a can of iced coffee from the fridge and cracks it open, downing it in one before setting the empty can on the counter and turning back towards the door. He tosses the heavy black bag in the boot of his Aston standing in his driveway and sets off for the airport. 

His iPhone connects to the bluetooth system in the car automatically, so when he presses the call button on the dash and tells it to call Vriska Serket, the Dropkick Murphys blast from his car’s sound system. After a few seconds, Vriska answers. 

“What do you want this time? It’s fucking midnight!”

“Please, like you were really asleep. You’re never asleep, probably preoccupied listening to awful hip-hop-- you caught me off-guard last time but I hope you didn’t think I was going to let Lil’ Wayne slide. Not on my watch, madam.” He smiles. They can’t start a conversation without insulting each other’s lifestyles for at least a couple of minutes.

“Oh yeah?” she scoffs, “Then please, since it’s _impossible_ that I could be doing anything more important than waiting by the phone thinking of you, heaving deep sighs and doodling the words ‘Mrs. Vriska Strider’ in between the names on my hit list, _please_ tell me what’s on your mind!”

“Holy Christ in heaven, troll or otherwise, talking to you is exhausting. I don’t know why I do it, honestly, but you’re right to feel honored. The chance to personally experience a phone call from His Striderness himself is a once-in-a-lifetime honor for most women, and you get it twice in twenty-four hours.”

“Oh? Then I hope you brought extra Striderness for my lovely companion here. Say ‘nihao,’ xiao Feiyun!”

“Oh god, what the fu-” but before he could finish he was interrupted by a third voice, speaking rapid Chinese.

“She says you should leave me alone! She says you interrupted her macking and she still has lots of macking to do!”

“Is this the same one as--”

Vriska laughs shrilly. “Nope! I get aaaaaaaall the ladies, Strider. All of them! You’re just going to have to face it-- I get more action than you and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

“We’ll see about that. I told you about my new secretary; she’s a tough nut to crack but I’m getting there. And I got a new partner today for a case, from the Legislacerators of all places. Bit crazy, not gonna lie, but I can already tell she’s gonna be amazing in--”

“Is it Terezi Pyrope?” There’s no humor in Vriska’s voice anymore. 

“Er-- well, yes, how did you know?” 

“Strider, all joking aside, I like you a lot. So listen close ‘cause I’m only going to say this once. Terezi Pyrope _cannot be trusted_. I’m good, without a doubt, but she’s so, _so_ much better.”

“What? Better at what?”

“Jeeeeeeeez, you name it! Blackmail, extortion, assassination, thievery-- The only thing I’m actually better than her at, believe it or not, is dealing with humans. The people she works for, the legislacerators, are in no way ‘law enforcement’ in the way you think!”

“Well no shit, I could tell she wasn’t your average beat cop, but are you saying they’re criminals or what?”

“I can’t really tell you much more, but think about it this way. In a society where even the royalty has a frond in the criminal underworld, would you really expect any organization to be completely just?”

“When you put it that way, no… Thanks, Vriska, I’ll let you get back to your Chinese take-out now.”

“Be careful, Strider! Having to sneak into a military funeral would be a huge pain in the ass, especially if it was yours!”

“Awww, you’d come to my funeral? That’s sweet.”

“That’s what moi-- _friends_ are for, Dave.” She hangs up. 

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

Arriving at the airport, Dave’s already a bit on edge. Terezi is leaning on the Bentley, arms crossed and eyes hidden behind her ruby-lensed shades. When she senses Dave, she jerks her head in the direction of a small private jet. “Aradia is already inside. You ready?”

“Do you even have to ask? I’ve been wanting to pay a visit to the Continent for months, and I’ve heard Spain is lovely this time of year.”

The troll stands up and gathers up her cane and a fashionable piece of luggage, leading Strider up the small flight of steps into the plane. It’s a comfortable Japanese make, not that the agent knows much about private jets, and the inside is all paneled in lacquered blond wood. Aradia is sitting on one of the swivel armchairs inside, carafe in one hand and ice tongs in the other. “Care for a drink, sir?”

Terezi frowns. “What did the rules say about drinking, Megido?”

“If I recall, it said something like ‘trolls operating under the supervision of The Legislacerators are forbidden to consume intoxicants, stimulants, or depressants, including but not limited to sopor slime, alcohol, or any narcotic substances such as hallucinogens or opiates.’ Is that close?” She offers a saccharine smile that does nothing to dissuade Terezi’s distasteful expression.

“So _why_ then, pray tell, are you offering an alcoholic drink to special agent Strider?”

“Simple. He isn’t a troll.” She drops an ice cube in a cut-glass cup of soda water and fills it to two fingers of Scotch. She hands it to Strider with a wink and then reclines in her chair. 

Terezi has nothing to say, but her frown tells of many things she’d like to. “Now then, Sollux Captor. What does the name mean to you?”

“Some kind of computer hacker, got a whole underground network, Feferi Peixes might be involved.”

“That’s a very… _succinct_ way to put it. Unfortunately, while all that is true, there’s much more you need to know.”

“Really? Like what?” Dave stirs his scotch and soda. The jet begins to take off, but it’s still smooth and quiet inside the cabin.

“There’s three things you have to understand about Sollux Captor. The first is that he’s a lowblood-- I assume you’re well-educated enough about the hemospectrum to know what that means. Second, he’s a powerful psychic, capable of telekineses of a high degree. Third, you were right about his being involved with Feferi Peixies. She’s his matesprit.” Her face is deadly serious at this point.

Strider adjusts his shades and leans forward in his seat. He whirls the amber fluid in his glass around a couple times then drains it. Setting the glass down on the small table fixed in between his and Aradia’s chairs, he levels his crimson eyes at Terezi. “Listen to me, Pyrope. I don’t care who the bastard is or what he can do with his brain. Tell me where he is and I’ll take care of him.”

Aradia claps sarcastically.

Terezi continues. “We don’t know where he is. Every lead we’ve got ends up being planted and none of our sources will say anything.”

“Anyone else I should know about on this case? There’s never only one when it comes to troll criminals. On the Ampora case I had to deal with like fifty or more to get to him, if Harley hadn’t been there I’d be fishfood.”

“You should have seen him that night,” interrupts Aradia. “He was sooo smooth. Nearly charmed me right out of my stockings.”

“And the fact we had to fight Equius whats-his-name and Vriska Serket--”

Terezi’s face, a resigned smile up to this point, immediately seizes up. “Vriska Serket? They caught Vriska Serket?”

“Er, no, she got away-- nothing I could do,” Dave lies. He picks up his glass and hands it to his secretary. “Aradia, darling, another please?” She immediately busies herself with the carafe.

“Dave Strider! I absolutely forbid you from communicating with Vriska Serket in any way on this mission! Do you understand?”

“What makes you think I’m communicating with her? She’s a wanted criminal!”

“Because I know her, and I’m getting a smell for you, and you two are _made_ for each other. I wouldn’t be surprised if you just _let_ her go on that night. Probably got her phone number first, though. Hmm? Am I close?”

Terezi’s intuition strikes Dave dumb for a split second. “Terezi, love, you’re not talking sense.” He receives his drink from Aradia and takes a sip.

“Don’t underestimate me, Strider, just because you don’t understand me. I have very little patience for humans, and even less for lies. I can smell right through them. I can smell _right through them.”_ The Spanish affect to her voice rises as she becomes more impassioned. Dave feels a bit of blood rush to his face. He hates to admit it to himself but when she gets going, when she gets hot-blooded… well _._ This could require further investigation.

“Now then, I was about to introduce the cast to you. These are the trolls you need to know on this case,” She slides a few folders, emblazoned with the same seal as the side of the jet, onto the table. Dave opens the top one. A thin, dangerous-looking troll glares back at him. Spiky hair conceals a pair of short, rounded horns and he’s got a rather large scar stretching from underneath one eye to the other across the bridge of his nose. “Karkat Vantas. Sollux’s moirail and bodyguard. Likes to use knifes, not above using anything else. He’s quick, this one, and had a tendency to vanish into thin air.”

“Looks like he’s seen some shit.”

“He was imprisoned for five years in a maximum security penal colony before Sollux busted him out and smuggled him to Earth.”

“Wait, Captor smuggled him to _Earth_?!”

“Captor can move any _thing_ to any _where_. A psionic like him doesn’t think the same way we do about physical obstructions. Most of the trolls he smuggles here simply have to pay him back in money, but not his moirail. He had to give him his entire life.”

“And this one… No psychic powers or whatever?”

“Oh, he’s got powers, all right. But that’s my business, not yours,” Terezi smirks in a way Dave would almost call suggestive if he didn’t know her better. “Nothing you have to worry about, rest assured. Next!”

The next folder on the stack is marked with a different seal- Dave recognizes it at once. “Interpol? What does Interpol have to do with anything?”

“This next one isn’t one of our targets, actually, but you’ve got to be aware of her nonetheless.”

Dave’s eyebrow twitches slightly as the folder opens to reveal a color photo of Fereri Peixes. “What? The queen!?”

“Indeed. As she is a member of royalty, we can’t actually charge her with any crimes. However, she’s not above human law. Her predecessor, the previous empress, signed a contract in agreement with this when we set up the first colony here. You’d have been about, oh-”

“I was thirteen.” Says Dave. “Bit over twenty years ago now.”

“Yes, about six sweeps old.” Terezi begins to chew on her pen, needle-sharp teeth poking little holes in the soft plastic. “Anyway, Feferi’s racked up a bit of a ‘rap sheet,’ as they say, and is wanted by a few different human law organizations, mostly in the States. Interpol would love to catch her on counts of smuggling.”

“Who’d have thought, criminals in office. Well, she was never really elected, was she? Anyway, we had a lovely conversation the night of the Ampora job and then she tried to kill me, so I wouldn’t mind seeing her behind bars. Next?” Dave glances at Aradia, dutifully taking notes on her iPad. She beams at him when she notices she’s being watched, though whether out of satisfaction or sarcasm is anyone’s guess. 

“Those were the main acts, now it’s time for the sideshow. There’s at least three trolls we’re aware of who have been hired to kill you.”

“Excuse me?” Dave is cool as can be most of the time, but being told there are multiple assassins after you is somewhat difficult news to take.

“A pair and a spare. Take a look,” Terezi pulls out three more folders and flips them all open. 

Dave cocks an eyebrow. Sideshow is right, these are three of the strangest-looking trolls he’s ever- wait one moment. “I know that one! Jade-- Captain Harley was talking to him at Eridan’s party!” He points to the one marked ‘Tavros Nitram’, a gangly-looking young troll with an overbite and horns that extended out of the sides of the frame. “He’s a _hitman_?”

“Tavros? Yes, though not a very good one from what I’ve heard. He can commune with animals, which I suppose is what he uses to perform assassinations. He works closely with this one, Gamzee Makara, a highblood of incredible strength and even more incredible stupidity.” She points to the picture of Gamzee Makara, a zoned-out looking troll with dark bags under his eyes. “He’s a sopor addict, so most of the time he’s harmless, but he can be extremely deadly when he’s off the stuff. Let’s see...” She flips the last folder open. A picture of a grinning female troll is paperclipped to a sheet on the inside. At first glance, all Dave can conclude about her is that she’s pretty cute. “Nepeta Leijon. The Leijons are a clan of greenbloods in service to the Zahhak clan, trained from birth to be the finest stealth warriors. This one, though… Maybe not so much.”

“Zahhak, Zahhak, where have I heard that name before?” Dave strokes his chin and ponders. 

“Zahhak as in Equius Zahhak, who was arrested on the same night as Ampora. He was subsequently released, as he’d committed no actual crimes, and Captain Harley chose not press charges.”

“Surprising, she can be very vindictive. Plus she’s American,” Dave smirked, “You know how _they_ are.”

Aradia politely clears her throat.

The rest of the plane ride passes smoothly, and before long Dave’s watching Madrid bloom into detail below him through the jet’s tiny window as if he were pinch-zooming it on his iPhone. Verdant city blocks gain detail in the dusky light as joggers and cyclists zip about between small French cars and couples sitting outside cafes. The nearer they get to the airport, the more Dave is anxious to breathe in air that doesn’t taste of fog and mold. 

When they step out of the jet onto the runway, the warm evening embraces Strider and he can’t help but smile. Aradia fetches their luggage and they go to meet the official Legislacerator car already arriving, ready to take them to their new headquarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "macking" in Chinese is "跑狼" (paolang, pronouced pow-long), or literally "running girls". You're welcome.


	4. RECEPTION COMMITTEE or TWO MEN IN STRAW HATS

The first thing Strider notices about The Legislacerators’ headquarters is how high the ceilings are for an underground building. Great white walls loom above his head for at least ten meters, bedecked all the way up with sharp alien lettering and photographs scrolling by on a video feed that loops around the room. There are very few humans, and the ones that are present are all a little odd-- _odder than usual for Spaniards_ , thinks Dave-- they’re likely to have piercings and dyed hair. The trolls move with purpose, and one would get the impression that smiling was against the rules here; they all look as serious as if they each just found out they have troll leukemia.

Terezi grabs Dave’s wrist with a small, clawed hand and drags him out of the elevator the trio had ridden to enter the building from street level. She maneuvers him to a pylon by the requisite security kiosk and instructs him to register his fingerprints, irises, and a sample of his blood. “Just a little prick, strawberry shortcake!” she cackles, as the machine stabs the pad of his thumb and collects a single drop. 

Aradia manages to make it through the whole process gracefully, though there’s a hint of recalcitrance on her pretty face when she presses her thumb to the machine for it to collect a sample of her maroon blood. Dave remembers at this point that her blood is very low in the spectrum indeed. This might be the reason she likes being around humans more than trolls.

Dave decides it would be remiss not to comment. Sidling over to the tall troll girl absently sucking her bleeding thumb-- the teal-blood security guard hadn’t deigned to offer _her_ a band-aid-- Dave looks into her golden eyes. “Listen, love, I know they’re down on you here but I want you to know I don’t give a flying fig about your position on the hemospectrum. You’re wonderful and if you ask me you should be told so more often.”

Aradia smiles slightly, but instead of maintaining eye contact she gazes downwards. “That’s nice, sir, really. But if you want to make friends with these people you really oughtta treat me worse. It’s just how things go here...” she waves weakly at the room at large. “It’s deeper than prejudice. It’s our society.”

Strider lifts her chin with a finger. “It’s not _my_ society. Where I’m from we measure a person’s worth with what they do with what they’re given, admiral all they way down to deck-swabber. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re right at the top. Now let’s go see our new office,” and he walks through the small security turnstile and into the grand white room. Aradia follows behind him, smiling slightly. 

Terezi is already chatting excitedly with a medium-sized male troll in a teal-and-red suit, her sharklike grin returning as he tells her something in Spanish. As Dave and Aradia walk up, she whips her head over toward them so fast Dave’s sure he hears a _crack_. “Outstanding news, Dave Strider!”

“Mr. Strider is fine, or Dave,” replies the agent, scratching his nose.

“Outstanding news, Dave Strider! We received a new communication from Captor when I was in England! We’re heading over to the intel department right now for a briefing, and you know what that means!”

“Er… Powerpoint presentations?”

“Yes! I mean, yes, but so much more! Ooh, briefings are the best!” Terezi’s small face has taken on much the same look of a seven-year-old girl outside the gates of Disney world.

Dave merely pushes his shades up the bridge of his nose and follows her as she scampers towards a hall marked “Intelligence” in Spanish, English, and Alternian.

 

O+O+O+O+O

  
  


Dave takes his seat at the conference table, a modern-design marvel in glossy black glass, and watches Terezi slump into her own chair. She sits down the same way she got into his car earlier today at lunch, just sort of positioning herself above the chair and allowing herself to fall into place. Odd, but not the oddest thing he’s ever seen. Aradia sits to Dave’s left, demurely smoothing her pencil skirt and crossing her legs at the ankle, the picture of finishing-school class. She withdraws her iPad from her large purse and loads up her note-taking app. Three more trolls file in, all looking around the same age, though one could never really tell a troll’s age-- they might be ten sweeps, might be fifty. Two are male and one is female, all wearing the teal-and-red colors of The Legislacerators’ uniform, though in different arrangements. 

The lights dim in the room and a large screen at the end turns on. Immediately Dave’s previous thought is contradicted, because the troll who’s on it actually does appear aged, and quite significantly, in fact. He looks like a human of about sixty-- and with his teal blood color, he’s more than likely to be ten times that.  His horns are long, straight, and dulled at the points, with avuncular wrinkles on his forehead, eyes as sharp as daggers, and a scar on his lip that’s been healed over for decades. He’s wearing a teal double-breasted suit with a red turtleneck. His lapel pin is a teal Libra emblem, just like Terezi. All four Legislacerators stand immediately when they see him, and Aradia follows suit right after that, so to avoid any conflict Dave stands too. The troll on the screen begins to speak in an even tone. “Good evening, Legislacerators, pale guests, and friends. I’d like to keep this brief because it’s late, but we’ll go as long as we need to. First of all, since I know Pyrope and Agent Dave Strider haven’t seen it, let’s view this communication from Sollux Captor one more time.”

The rectangle containing his face floats to the end of the panoramic display, and a new image appears. It’s a troll Dave recognizes from photographs as Sollux Captor, complete with the red-and-blue glasses. He’s wearing a black hoodie sweatshirt with a large yellow Gemini logo on it and a knit cap, so Dave can’t see his horns, but he’s clearly not going for any kind of disguise. In the background are several tall, odd-looking boxes covered in a hexagonal grid pattern and crawling with bees. 

Sollux is looking directly at the camera as he speaks. “OK, Earth. I’m a reathonable guy. I don’t thteal muthic, I don’t thpeed in my car, I pay my tackthes jutht like everyone elth. Only here’th the thing. When I pay tactheth for thtuff like ‘urban development’ or the ‘war on terror’, I don’t thee a lot of that money going towardth the Troll partth of town, or combatting anti-troll hate groupth. People have to thtart charitieth jutht to build jungle gymth in the playgroundth at Troll thchoolth! And I’m fucking thichk and tired of it. We’re thitizenths of this planet too, and we do our part, and we detherve more than we’re getting.” He reaches to the side, momentarily breaking eye contact, and pulls out a netbook displaying a scrolling stock ticker. “Here’s what’th gonna happen. I’m gonna do what you thould have done twenty-three years ago when we got here. The thame year, in fact, we thared with you the technology that led to the cureth for canther and AIDth, ath well ath paved the way for the renewable energy thources powering your TVth right now. Anyway, long thtory thort, I’m going to rethet the Dow Joneth Induthtrial Average. When I run thith program, all digital currency on earth will loothe itth value at onthe.”

He clicks out a few keystrokes on his desktop and all the scrolling numbers immediately begin to drop. Within a few seconds every single one is red, and in a few more they all display as zeros. “Devaluing currencieth bathed on credit ith ath eathy ath eliminating demand,” He continues, “And demand ith a fickle thing in this digital age. After all, there’s alwayth thomething newer and better around the corner.” He grins at the camera, big fangs glimmering the the light of the monitor. “Think about it. You have three dayth, and I run this program for real. I don’t want money, I just want you to do the right thing before I have to do it myself. I’ll be watching the newth, eagerly awaiting the new pro-troll billth and budgetth the G-twenty countrieth come up with. Don’t forget-- I can run it from anywhere, at any time, if I want to do it thooner. And don’t bother trying to kill me, becauthe if I die it’ll go off immediately.” He nudges his oddly-colored sunglasses up his sharp nose and leans in. “One more thing. I really don’t want to thee anyone get hurt over thith. Tho be good little boyth and girlth and jutht thtart practithing what you preacth and everyone will look back on thith in ten yearth and remember it ath the firtht thtep toward true Human-Troll partnerthip on Earth. You have three dayth. Don’t fuck thith up, cauthe retht athured, _I_ won’t.”

The video ends and the austere-looking chief reappears on the main screen. “I’m afraid I don’t have a lot to contribute at this time. I’m going to turn it over to our New York branch where Mr. John Egbert has some information for you.”

“Egbert? John Egbert? It can’t be--” Dave begins.

“As in Mr. Egbert, your agency’s chief of staff, yes. John is his son.” As the troll chief says this, his large portrait is shunted to the side again as the main screen is taken over by a face the agent has seen several times, framed and on his boss’ desk. Messy black hair, wide blue eyes, thick rectangular-frame glasses. Everything about this guy screams _nerd_. 

“Hi! I’m John Egbert, but you can call me John! Gosh, it’s great to be talking to one of my dad’s co-workers!” The voice carries a note of unbridled excitement, seemingly oblivious to what could very well be the impending end of the world. “Ok, let’s get to it! What we’re looking at here is an angry hacker with the capability to devalue all digital currency in the world in an instant. I don’t think I need to go into the awful stuff that’ll happen if we don’t stop him! I mean, we’re talking global recessions, mass unemployment, stagflation for decades! Our top guys here in New York are working on cracking his code, but frankly unless we get really lucky, it’s not going to happen in time,” He frowns for a second, then continues. “So what we need to do is to delete all traces of the code from all machines that might have a copy on them. Chances are we’re gonna need to physically destroy all network-capable devices at the same moment, since they’ll be keyed up to run the program if they sense something happening to any others. We gotta do this while simultaneously keeping Captor from transmitting the code from non-network devices, such as flash drives, data grubs, hard disks, et cetera. We have our guys working on the first part. We need you for the second, Agent Strider, Legislacerator Pyrope.”

The chief pipes in. “Your mission will be to go in, nab Sollux, and get him out of wherever he’s hiding without him activating any of his devices. Only when he’s safely in our grasp can we destroy his transmission equipment. We’ve triangulated the possible locations of transmissions to sixteen cities, three of which are on the sea floor-- obviously Queen Feferi’s work. He should have known he’d be dealing with us. He should have known he’d need more. We’ll have Legislacerators positioned to move in on every single one within four hours’ time. As for the troll himself, he’s in Fez. He doesn’t know we know.”

“Badass,” Says Strider, leaning back in his chair. “So we just have to nab the kid and bring him back.”

“Only it’s not that simple. You see, his mental abilities make him a very potent threat. You’ll probably be immune to most of his psychic powers, but please keep in mind you’re not immune to the effects of his telekinesis!”

“Great. Was that my threat assessment briefing, too?”

John pipes up again. “No. You’ll be getting that right now. Hummingbird?” He looks to the side, and the camera slides over to reveal a woman sitting next to him. Blonde hair, neutral expression, conservative black dress-- she’s impossible to read. Dave likes her immediately.

“My most sincere greetings, Madrid branch. My name is Rose, and I’ll be your guide this evening as we reconnoitre the volatile and obstreperous hazards that might befall you throughout your Sollux-centric sojourn.”

John sticks his head in the frame. “That means this is your safety briefing!”

Rose smiles thinly and continues. “I overheard it touched upon briefly that your target is a telekinetic. Let’s pursue that line of inquiry for a spell, shall we?”

“Do we have a choice?” Dave asks.

“Mr. Strider, please. We’re trying to learn,” Rose says sharply. Terezi giggles. “Now then. Sollux’s capacities…” She then proceeds to list the physical force measurements of Captor’s abilities in Newtons, including his ability to push and pull matter from various ranges. She smiles apologetically as she adds the word “estimated” to the end of a few of the stats but aside from that her tone is remarkably deadpan. Within a minute Dave is fighting to stay awake. After what feels like an eternity in this vein, she concludes “...Or roughly equal to a refrigerator. Mr. Strider?” The utterance of his name snaps him back to attention.

“Yes?” he responds, thankful to his shades for hiding his drooping eyelids.

“Just checking to make sure you’re still with me.”

“To the ends of the Earth, love. Er, maybe not such an apt analogy at the moment.” He grins. 

She doesn’t. 

“That concludes my briefing. John? Anything to add?”

John grins, revealing far too many pearly white teeth. “If you end up in New York, the three of us should hang out! I’d love to hear some embarrassing stories about my dad, he never talks about work!”

“The three of us?” Says Dave, glancing at Terezi. She’s furiously scribbling something in a notebook with the concentration of a heart surgeon.

“Yeah! You, me, and Rose here! We’re not just work partners, we’re life partners!” He holds up his hand to reveal a wedding ring. “Show him your ring, honey!” 

Reluctantly, Rose lifts her pale hand to show a ring emblazoned with a small sapphire. Words dripping venom, she says “I do _so_ hope to see you in New York sometime soon, agent Strider.”

“Right, I’ll have to look you up next time I’m there. Could be sooner rather than later.” Dave gives them a smile rehearsed at many official Navy functions.

When the two disconnect, John is still grinning and Rose has once again assumed her wry smile. The chief takes over the main screen and wishes everyone a good evening and good luck. “We’re all counting on you, special agent Strider. We have the highest confidence that you’re the man for the job. Now let’s go save the world.” Finally his face disappears. The screen turns off and the lights come up in the board room. Aradia taps her iPad a couple more times, slides it back into her purse, and stands up. Terezi is still scribbling away.

“What on earth are you doing there?” Asks Dave. 

“A cartoon. I’m almost done!” Terezi replies, snickering slightly. After a few more furious strokes, she holds it up for both to see. The page displays John and Rose, or rather an extremely shaky approximation of them with limbs and various features flying all over the place. They’re portrayed in what the troll had previously referred to as a "compromised" state of dress, hovering above a rectangle that Strider’s baser instincts suggest is probably a bed, performing an act that requires no further elucidation. There’s a caption across the top that reads, ‘HUM4N R3PRODUCT1ON SUR3 1S W31RD!” The whole thing is done in squirrely ballpoint ink and gives Dave a headache to look at.

“A few more of these and you’ll have invented a new school of impressionism. Now come on, bars are closing soon and I haven’t had my drink yet.”

“Ah ah ah, Dave Strider! Remember the rules!” Terezi grins. “I amended them since we landed. Now humans can’t drink either. I can do that.”

Aradia takes out her phone and pokes it for a second. “No you didn’t. It still says the same thing on the database.”

“Damn! I thought that might work,” Terezi pouts.

“Rules be damned, If I’m to save the world, I’m going to need to get properly pissed first. Come with me or don’t, it’s up to you.”

“I’ll stay, if it’s all the same to you-- I plan to get up early tomorrow,” says Aradia. “Good night, then.”

“‘Night. Terezi?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Let’s go!” And without another word the small troll turns for the door and strolls right out.

Dave looks at Aradia one more time and quietly asks her, “What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into?”

She merely smiles at him. “I’ll tell you one thing. That Sollux guy was pretty cute.”

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

The Spanish air is warm and fragrant, and Dave is fighting the urge to grin ear-to-ear as he strolls past butcheries displaying cured hams in their windows and the glowing green plus-signs adorning the small pharmacies. He passes the patio of a cafe where a pair of lovely dark-haired young women are enjoying espresso and _postres_ , and delivers them a smile that stops their conversation dead. Smirking as he walks away, the sound of gigging replaces their rapid Spanish in his wake. 

“Not bad, Dave Strider. You seem to have a way with the females. Perhaps I should be taking notes?” Terezi says, her jagged grin returning. Her Spanish accent is stronger now, each word she speaks seasoned with a bit of extra spice as her _y_ s become _j_ s and her _shs_ become _ch_ s. 

Dave continues to half-smile at her. “Maybe I should have warned you before we got here,” he says as he loosens his tie and unbuttons the collar of his shirt. “When Strider’s in your town, might as well just pack it in. That said, feel free to observe, you might learn something.”

“Hee hee, ok. I’ll be observing your amazing human attraction techniques. In the meantime, how about I tell you about how I know Vriska Serket?”

“I’m actually curious about that. I’m guessing it’s a fated-rival kinda thing? Kismesises or something?”

“Couldn’t be more wrong. Actually, we were partners once.” She’s not smiling anymore.

“Partners? When and where was this?” The two of them are walking past another street cafe, where a pair of trolls in incongruous porkpie hats are sitting drinking some kind of murky liquid. 

“This was before Earth. Before I joined the Legislacerators, before she followed in the footsteps of her ancestors, when the two of us were only--”

But before she could finish her sentence, she’s interrupted by one of the seated trolls. “Hey, Chica. Hey, yeah, you. Got a light?” He’s tall and lanky, wild frizzy hair flying from his head in all directions, with tall horns that jut through the silly hat and almost scrape the low overhang of the patio. His face is obscured by shadows.

“No. I don’t smoke,” says Terezi, barely turning toward him. 

“Wicked, wicked. I’m all up and feelin’ that naturalistic shit, yeah, that ascetic fuckin’ outlook. Ya hear, my best motherfuckin’ bro, you dig what brosephina here is motherfuckin’ spoutin’? Sounds like they don’t got no fires, sick or motherfuckin’ otherwise.” He sits up in his chair, suddenly becoming much more imposing-- he must be at least two meters tall.

“Well, uh, I guess, if that’s, uh, the case… I guess it’s up to us, you and me, bro, to start some.” The shorter one stands up, only just matching his partner’s seated stature.

“Start some what, my main motherfucker?” The tall one leans forward, face coming into plain view in the lamplight of the street. Dave knows him without a doubt, it’s Gamzee Makara, but unlike in the picture he saw the lanky troll is wearing facepaint that looks something like a clown face and something like a skull. His expression is downright _murderous._

“Uh, I mean, obviously what I mean, is to, uh, start some sick fires.” The shorter one takes a step forward, being careful not to whack his friend with the long horns protruding from the sides of his head. The glow of the streetlamps reflects off his shiny metal legs- robotic prosthetics? 

Makara seems to consider this for a second and then grins. “Righteous motherfuckin’ idea, my man, only I still ain’t done with this miraculous motherfuckin’ bean juice here, it’s givin’ me all kinds of wicked crazy realizations about shit, like, so how about we just say good evening like some civil-ass motherfuckers and maybe start some sick motherfuckin’ fires on their asses, like, tomorrow or some shit.” He leans back in his chair lazily.

“I have a better idea,” says Terezi calmly, reaching into her jacket and pulling out her Legislacerator’s badge, adorned with a blind troll goddess holding a sword and a noose, and a large teal Libra emblem. “How about you two come with us. Gamzee Makara, Tavros Nitram, you’re both under arrest.”

“Oh, shit, bro, what are we gonna do,” begins Tavros in a panic, looking around and nearly bashing Gamzee in the head with his huge horns. “She’s a Legislacerator, and like, there are no animals around, for me to control, with my mind, which is kind of my thing, as you know--”

“I think, my motherfuckin’ main man, we gotta get all up and out of here. Sorry, chica, not goin’ with you on this miraculous motherfuckin’ night, but like, thanks for the motherfuckin’ offer or whatever!” And he stands up, grabbing Tavros bodily under the arms and crouching down.

“What the fu-” begins Dave, but with a mighty leap Gamzee jumps straight through the canvas overhang and onto the cafe’s roof. One more great leap and he’s out of view. The agent turns to Terezi. “What are we gonna do?”

Pyrope considers for a second, thin eyebrows wrinkled in concentration. “Justice will have to wait. They won’t go far, but taking down an indigo-blood is going to take more resources than we have with us right now.”

“Glad we agree. That was one of the stranger things I’ve seen in a while. If I didn’t need a drink before I sure as hell do now, if only to help rationalize all of this.” He begins walking again. 

They finally arrive at a small bar and settle down to the thumping bass of a few raggedy teenagers playing some decent rockabilly. Dave gives the order for his martini very carefully and Terezi asks for a virgin bloody mary 'with extra blood'. They talk about missions they’ve been on, rivals they’ve bested, and the partners they’ve hated and loved. Terezi doesn’t bring Vriska up again and despite the alcohol clouding his senses Dave doesn’t ask. They don’t leave until the barkeeper shoos them out in aggravated Spanish and once on the street, Dave looks into Terezi’s face. She’s already staring back up at him. 

“Terezi. This has been a marvelous evening, and I’m not just talking about the music. Or the weather.” He adjusts his jacket slightly, always compelled to move nervously during pauses in conversation.

“Dave Stri- Dave. I agree. But all in good time,” She places a cool finger upon his lips. “You humans have a saying that I like. It goes ‘some rules were meant to be broken.’ Being with you really makes me want to break a few of them. Especially number four.”

“I shall have to look that one up to see if I agree. Probably when I’m more sober. I don’t know if you can tell but I’m really quite sloshed right now.”

“I’d be able to tell from France. Come on, I’ll get you back safe and sound,” she says, and taking his hand, she leads him the few blocks back to the unassuming office building that sits above the headquarters of the world’s largest anti-criminal organization.

After delivering him to his temporary room within the headquarters building and hoisting him onto the bed, she drags a blanket over his still-clothed body. She just stands in the doorway for a few moments, watching his chest rising and falling, and then like a ghost she’s gone.


	5. CLOSE SHAVES or ALL TO PLAY FOR

“Pity we have to leave so soon. I was really looking forward to seeing some of Spain’s numerous completed construction projects,” says Dave, loading his black suitcase into the cargo hold of the light aircraft. Even dressed in a cotton one-button suit with his tie loose and his top button undone, his forehead is still beading with perspiration. It must be pushing 40 Celsius and the agent isn’t acclimated to the heat in the slightest. The black asphalt runway is shimmering with convection like a solar cooker. Of course, Terezi Pyrope is in her element, carrying a very official-looking standard Legislacerator-issue parasol and sipping from a bottle of iced tea. 

She puts her drink down. “Shush, Strider, this isn’t a vacation. We only have a few hours to get to Fez before Sollux’s location can no longer be verified!” she says, then clenches her sharp teeth as she manhandles her own luggage aboard. Turning to face him, she continues. “We got word while you were sleeping off your _hangover_ that he’ll be on his way to Turkey soon, and then to the Black Sea. If he gets to Algeria it’ll be troublesome for us, let alone Libya, so let’s get a move on!”

“Okay, okay, I get it. It’s what, two hours’ flight to Fez from here? No worries. Let’s just get in and crank the air con.” 

Strider settles into his seat, frowning at the feeling of sweat cooling on his body, and heaves an exaggerated sigh. He can feel Pyrope’s scrutinizing non-glare, so after a moment, he sits up and takes his PPK out of his armpit holster and begins to disassemble and clean it on the burled-wood table between his seat and the one opposite. Terezi seems satisfied with this, and flops into her own seat, whereupon she takes a notebook out of her carryon and begins scribbling away at it like she had the day before at the briefing room. 

The plane ride passes in uneasy silence, Dave attempting to stave his pounding headache with the expensive bottled water he found in the plane’s minifridge and sheer force of willpower. Terezi fills sheet after sheet with scribbled drawings and diagrams, before finally ripping one out and holding it up for Strider to inspect.

“Strider! I figured it out!” she shouts, causing Dave to clutch his temples and groan. He can’t for the life of him discern what the jumbled mess is supposed to convey.

“Ergh-- what, woman? I’m only five feet away!”

“I figured out how to defeat the highblood assassin! It’s a cunning plan full of danger and the only possible outcome is justice!”

“Really? That’s marvelous. How’s it go?” asks Dave, not even bothering to feign excitement.

“As you know, both Makara and Nitram prefer males to females in flushed relationships--”

“What do you mean, ‘as I know?’ I was supposed to know that?”

“It was in the file, you should have read it. So anyway, we use you as bait, to lure them into a trap. A sexy trap!” Terezi’s shark grin is back, and starting to get _very_ old.

“The hell you say. I’m not agreeing to anything, but I have to hear the rest of this. I guessing you wait until they get a load of me and catch them with their pants down, so to speak?” Strider yawns.

“No, Gamzee would only be _more_ difficult to fight if he was _preparing_ to pail. We wait until he’s done.”

“We wait until he’s done… Pailing me?”

“You catch on quick for a human!” she cackles. 

“Okay, that can be the backup plan. How about right now we come up with one that doesn’t involve me being anally violated?” Dave’s fighting the urge to smile a bit at the sheer ridiculousness of what he’s hearing. “At least I get to be the bait, I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You’re my second choice. I’d be the bait, due to my astoundingly high levels of natural sexiness, but I have to be there to strike the winning blow! Your little human gun isn’t going to stop an indigo-blood under any circumstances.”

“Astoundingly high levels of natural sexiness, huh? And where you been keeping that?” Dave smirks at the troll.

“Watch and see,” she replies, and rotates the chair 180 degrees. When she swings it back around, the top couple buttons of her teal camisole are undone, revealing some legitimately impressive décolletage, and her hair is mussed appealingly around her suddenly glasses-less face. She pouts her black lips and leaning forward slightly. She implores in a breathy voice, “Really? You don’t think I’m sexy? I’m hurt, Mr. Strider. _Devastated.”_

Strider’s face turns a particularly unironic shade of pink.

Slouching back in her chair, Terezi slips her ruby-framed glasses back on and cackles, “Oh, Agent Strider, you couldn’t possibly be blushing right now, could you? No, must be a sunburn, right? Hee hee hee!” 

Dave just sulks.

 

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

 

 Spain was hot, but Morocco is _hot._ Even as Dave is walking down the stairs from the plane, he can feel his pale English skin sizzling under the scorching sun. Even Terezi looks a bit uncomfortable, unfolding her parasol and waving her nose to and fro to get a scent of the new environment. “Where’s the car? There should be a car,” she asks.

“I don’t see a car. Don’t tell me there’s a Legislacerators’ headquarters in Morocco, too?” Dave shades his already-shaded eyes with his hand and looks around the sandy airstrip. No sign of a car anywhere. Then he sees it: a tan late-80’s Mercedes-Benz, practically camouflaged in the sea of like-colored sand and sparse vegetation. No wonder Terezi was unable to detect it. His eye is drawn to a lizard scampering out of the way of Terezi’s red shoe as she begins to walk forward. “Never mind, I see it. Follow me.” He tries surreptitiously to catch a bit of the shade from Terezi’s parasol, but just ends up getting whacked in the forehead.

He guides Terezi to the car and she hands him a card with instructions in English and Spanish on how to get to the hotel they booked as a temporary base of operations. The driver looks at it and shakes his head. Dave is able to translate the English into his shaky private-school French-- his German and even his Russian is better-- and the man seems to get the gist. They get in the back and try desperately not to burn their skin on the leather seats, which currently store the thermal potential energy of an exploding sun. After a couple moments they resign themselves to a long and uncomfortable journey.

“So, we have a plan-- pending adjustments-- for Gamzee and Tavros, what about the third one?” asks Dave, turning to his partner.

“Leijon? Honestly? I doubt she’ll even show up.”

No sooner has she said this than an enormous wrench of steel sounds out and the front half of the Mercedes is wholly and cleanly separated from the back. Dave and Terezi are restrained by their seatbelts as the half of the car with them in it flips and twists along the lonely desert road, knocking them every which way and blasting them with sand and grit and broken safety glass. The front half scrapes a good few dozen meters ahead before the drag of the undercarriage stops it. The driver seems unhurt but startled-- Dave realizes _he’s_ unhurt but startled-- and Terezi seems to have fared just as fortunately. Their careening car portion comes to a full stop with a _crunch_ and Dave takes quick stock. Deciding he’s unharmed, he calmly unbuckles his seatbelt and ducks out. Terezi is already doing the same, so he proceeds to draw his PPK and scan the surrounding area for what-- or who-- did this. 

“Nya ha ha ha! The stealthy kitty purrveys the wreckage and is pleased by what she sees! Look fur her all you want, you’re nefur gonna find her!” comes a bubbly feminine voice, seemingly from all sides at once. 

Dave whips around, looking for the source, but the tumultuous cloud of sand and dust whirling around them limits his vision to mere meters. He takes account of his partner, and orients himself with the road and the wreckage of the driver’s half of the car in the distance. He rushes to the body of the car, to at least have something protecting his back, and calls out “Pyrope? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Can’t smell a damn thing though-- _augh!”_ and she’s silent once again.

Cursing under his breath, Dave crouches and makes his way through the whipping maelstrom towards the sound of her voice. He finds her crumpled against the other side of the car, teal blood flecking her chin, unmoving. Cursing again, Dave checks her pulse while continuing to scan for their foe. 

“She’s alive, the awesome ninja catgirl missed her vitals on purrpose! She’s not the assassin’s target. Only mew!” Calls the voice again.

“Then come out where I can see you!” yells Dave, pulse rising in his chest. He’s as blind as Terezi in these conditions, and he doesn’t like his odds. And what _is_ it with trolls and animal puns?

“Yeah right! The furrious fighter is a stealth warrior, not a… Not a regular warrior!” his unseen adversary shouts back. “She’s stealthy!”

“Well this guy has a lot of bullets, and he’s just going to start shooting in every direction if you-- I mean, if _she_ doesn’t come out right now!” shouts Dave back, feeling somewhat like he’s trying to placate a stubborn child, albeit one who just tore a car in half.

“You… You want to roleplay?” comes a tentative question.

“If it means you won’t kill me, sure,” he replies, still sweeping for the source of the voice. 

A shrouded silhouette darkens as it approaches Strider, still crouched next to Pyrope’s unconscious form. His attacker is wearing tan fatigues, shins and forearms wrapped with strips of some kind of binding. Her outfit is distinctly feminine in cut, but still exposes no skin to the harmful sun’s rays. She’s wearing a pair of old-fashioned tinted aviation-styled goggles with a tan keffiyeh drawn over her face. Her short black hair is mostly covered by a furry tan hat-- the protrusions of her short, round horns are fashioned to look like cat ears. “The furrsome warrior approaches her prey, ready at a moment’s notice to slice him to strips!”

Never taking his eyes off the slight figure, he replies, “The dashing secret agent keeps his gun trained on his obviously skilled adversary, but finds himself attracted to her at the same time. He’s intensely curious about what she looks like under all that protective gear.” This is probably the strangest of all the strange-ass shit Strider’s had to do in the last year, but when it comes to flirting-- even with girls in combat fatigues who want to kill him-- you cannot hope to beat Dave Strider. He’s simply the best there is.

“The deadly warrior spies her victim, helpless before her killing purrowess! The harmfur rays of sunlight glisten on her shiny, shiny claws. Check it out!” Sets of blades spring out from within the wrappings of her sleeves, extending a good twenty centimeters beyond her fists. She waves them around playfully. Suddenly she springs at Dave and buries the claws several centimeters into the steel frame of the Mercedes right beside his head. Dave doesn’t flinch.

“The trapped agent is not very good at referring to himself in the third person and would like to know if there’s any chance the ninja cat lady will change your mind-- I mean change her mind about killing him, since he can’t think of a single reason she’d want to do that.” Strider says calmly. His senses are slowly returning as the sand settles. His smart-shades are able to preform a quick x-ray scan at this range, revealing no less than 6 other blades hidden on the odd assassin’s person. 

“Oh ho! You see, I am bound by honor to hunt the enemies of my master and best furiend Equius Zahhak!” She springs back, withdrawing her claws from the car. 

Dave does a double-take. “You work for Equius?”

“Nyo, silly! He doesn’t know his kitty-ninja moirail is even here. She’s gonna furprise him and he’s gonna be sooooo happy!” It’s hard to tell her expressions when her face is completely concealed, but her grin comes through her words easily enough. “And stop breaking character, you’re supurrsed to be roleplaying.”

“Equius is fine, I never so much as touched him. If you want to surprise him, I know just the way.” Dave holsters his PPK, in hopes maybe she’ll put her blades away. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws his wallet, then takes out one of his fake business cards emblazoned with a pixelated broken-record logo. On the back of it he writes down Jade’s cell phone number from memory and holds it out to the girl. “Tell him Jade Harley is single once more and would just love for him to formally court her, highblood style. Be sure to mention she’s going to pretend to be shy but her resistance is all an act. It’s just how she is.” Dave can’t help but grin. Revenge is sweet.

Nepeta crosses the distance to Dave with light steps. She moves as though weightless, pouring herself from step to step with an amazing degree of control. Retracting her blades, she reaches up to unfasten her keffiyeh and remove her hat and goggles. She’s young-looking and cute, with big yellow eyes and messy hair that frames her face, and a grin full of pointy fangs. “Hmmm,” she hums, “The killer kitty carefully considers the human’s words.” 

“I’m not lying, look it up. They let him go.” Dave repeats.

“...OK! In that case I will believe you. I’m Nepeta Leijon! Sorry about your car,” she says, offering Strider a fingerless-gloved hand.

He takes it, warily, and kisses the gloved knuckles with his best approximation of grace. “Pleasure’s mine. The name’s Strider, Dave Strider. Though I suppose you knew that,” he releases her hand and turns to look at Terezi, who seems to be stirring. “Tell you what. How about we get the hell out of this desert, yeah? Maybe find somewhere with cold water?”

“Okay!” says the cat-troll, grinning again. Swinging her headgear and scarf loosely in one hand, she turns right around and starts walking. Supporting Terezi under an arm, he follows her along the desolate road back to the airstrip. 

 

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

It’s five kilometers from the airstrip to the nearest landmark, so Dave calls for a car to pick them up there, again using his awful French to reasonable effect. He just knows they’re going to gouge him on the price for being a tourist, but it’s the Legislacerators who’ll have to foot the bill, so he doesn’t really care. Their plane left a while ago, so he parks Terezi’s still-groggy form under some shade netting left by what he must assume is the last military unit that used this godforsaken place-- French before they pulled out? He’s not exactly up on his North African history. Once he’s sure she’s okay, he sits down far enough to be out of earshot and does exactly what the Troll agent had told him not to: he calls Vriska Serket.

The Dropkick Murphys will forever be associated in his mind with troublesome situations if this she keeps it as her ringback tone, and he frowns as the pounding drums do nothing to assuage his nerves. After a few seconds, her familiar voice breaks off the song. “Serket.”

“Businesslike today, eh? I didn’t catch you in the middle of something? Or someone?” asks Dave, smiling slightly.

“Oh _Dave_ , this has been the best-- and most profitable-- vacation ever! If my notes are correct, and they’re probably not ‘cause I only wrote down the ones I remember, I fucked… Three Zhongs, two Qins, two Bais, and a Wang. I don’t even think any of them were related! Though who knows, maybe they all were.”

“One of these days, Serket, you’re going to have to learn how to not be disgustingly racist. For now, though, I have something actually important to ask you. I need you to tell me what you know about Sollux Captor’s threat.”

“Sollux? What’s he been up to since Ampora hired him for that one-off with the congresswoman?” 

“Christ, you haven’t seen? Go on youtube this minute and just look it up! Watch the video and call me back.”

“Sure thing,” she replies, and hangs up. 

Dave pats the perspiration from his brow and glances over at Nepeta. She’s replaced her goggles, hat and scarf and is doing some kind of martial arts practice in the sand. He watches her swing her blades around for a minute, swigs some water, and waits for Vriska to call back. It only takes about a minute.

She’s laughing when he brings the iPhone to his ear. “Oh, Jegus! This is amazing, he got you guys so good!”

Dave’s face goes stern. “What are you talking about.”

“This video is so fake! Devalue all the world’s digital currency? Did no one stop for a minute and say this is fucking _retarded_?”

“Er, no. Every tech-head in every branch of every office has agreed he could do it. They ran simulations and everything.”

“Simulations my grey ass, this is a hundred percent hoofbeast shit, and believe me, I haven’t forgot how hoofbeast shit smells. Sollux has something bigger up his sleeve. Wish I could tell you what is, but with him... I couldn’t even guess.”

“There’s one more thing. He’s on his way to Turkey, and the Black Sea. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Kanaya.” The one word, breathlessly.

“Kanaya? What’s Kanaya?” Asks Dave eagerly.

“Not what. Who. I have to go,” says Vriska, and hangs up.

Dave is a little bit dumbfounded. He looks at his phone again. He’d pulled a copy of Serket’s mug shot as her caller ID photo, and she somberly looks back at him as “call terminated” adorns the top of the screen. For once her expression isn’t ironic, it seems to match her last utterance exactly. Even as he’s holding it, his phone buzzes with a new text from the woman herself. “ _Be careful of Karkat. He’ll gladly die for Captor, almost has before. If you survive this one_ ” is all it says.

Then it buzzes again. “ _You’d better survive._ ”


	6. HORIZONS OF AGONY or PANDORA'S BOX

Dave blows on his mint tea, enjoying the irony of being served a steaming beverage in a blazing desert in summertime. He’s seated on an elaborately patterned wicker chair-- everything is elaborately patterned in this country-- with Terezi and Nepeta in the small cafe constituting the ground floor of their small hotel, dressed in rolled shirt sleeves. Now that they’re inside, Terezi’s changed into a warm-weather version of the Legislacerator’s outfit, a red short-sleeved ladies’ polo shirt with a small libra emblem on the breast and a turquoise pair of cuffed shorts. It’s quite becoming, actually. Nepeta’s stowed her fatigues and opted instead for a pleated skirt and a tank top. They’re both happily sipping their tea and chatting about their favorite travel destinations. Dave’s a little surprised they get along so well, but better they get along then they try to kill each other at every opportunity. 

Strider had asked quietly if Terezi still had any lingering feelings about Nepeta’s assault on her, to which she’d simply cackled and told him knocking someone out was like saying hello on Alternia. He’d taken that to mean ‘no.’

“Ladies. I need to ask you a couple questions then I’ll leave you to your conversation. It’s concerning Karkat Vantas,” says Strider, sitting up in his chair. Both females tense up at the name. 

Nepeta speaks first. “Karkitty is here? In Purrocco?” she asks, wide eyes stretching wider. “Ooh, we should invite him over! We could have a tea pawty!”

Terezi is frowning when she responds, “Nepeta, when was the last time you saw Vantas?”

“Ohh, sweeps and sweeps ago. I don’t think I’ve seen him since we came to Earth!” Grins the round-horned girl.

“As I thought. Listen, dear, Karkat is not going to be the same as you remember him--”

Dave interrupts. “Since when do you both personally know Karkat Vantas?!”

Terezi bats his face lightly, thin fingers making a _pap_ _pap_ sound on the bridge of his nose. “Shoosh. We’re trying to have a conversation.”

Dave somehow can’t find it in himself to be mad, even after being smacked on the face, so he just listens.

“As I was saying, Karkat has had some very difficult experiences since the two of you were-- since before Earth.” She turns to Dave and says, “Karkat and Nepeta are former matesprits.”

“How do you know that? How long have you known that?!” Dave blusters.

“Since before he was expelled from the Threshecucioners and imprisoned, so fourteen sweeps ago or thereabouts. As for how, it’s because Karkat and _I_ are former matesprits as well. You don’t get to know when.”

A memory flashes in Dave’s head. Terezi smirking, on the plane to Madrid. _“Oh, he’s got powers, all right. But that’s my business, not yours.”_ Suddenly it makes sense.

“...God, was there anyone on Alternia that douchebag _didn’t_ pail?” Scoffs Dave.  

Terezi frowns. “Don’t be crass. There were sweeps between all of these times.”

“Aww, don’t be such a sourpuss! Me ‘n’ Karkitty were purractically wigglers, we didn’t do anything nasty like that,” says Nepeta, looking up and wrinkling her nose, then goes back to noisily slurping her tea.

“Okay, your weird troll-love was pure as the freshly fallen, I get it. But the bigger concern here is what his deal is now with Sollux Captor.”

Terezi taps her chin thoughtfully. “They’ve been moirails as long as I can remember. I think Vantas actually admires Captor a great deal, at least a great deal more than he’s willing to admit. There are many things that he struggled with for sweeps that Sollux just picked up on the first try-- computers, for instance, or girls. After Karkat’s imprisonment, Sollux locked himself in his hive for perigees.”

“Coming up with a plan to get him out?”

“In between sessions of self-loathing and depression, yes. Our intel shows the troll has a propensity towards extremely self-destructive behaviors that manifest themselves right around the times he has any real reason for self-doubt-- a failed relationship, the loss of his lusus, et cetera. Often, given the nature of his powers, these outbursts end up causing harm to others. He put Ampora in a hospital one time a few sweeps ago simply for implying he’d make a better matesprit for Peixes.”

“And lately, Peixes herself has come into legal question for her involvement with Ampora, correct?” Dave smiles. Troll relationships are complicated, but he’s been cracking codes his whole life. After a while one more poses no challenge. “That’s enough to ruin anyone’s day.”

“Officially, Vriska Serket was Ampora’s kismesis. This was owing more to the color of her blood than anything else-- the two have barely even seen each other since Earth. He’d never register a quadrant with a lowblood, but there’s no one he hated more than the matesprit of his moirail. The moirail who his real feelings for were as red your candy-apple eyes.”

Ignoring this vaguely unsettling simile, Dave replies “Feferi Peixes. She mentioned that night they had broken off as moirails…”

“Exactly. He threw the party that night to propose they shift quadrants and she leave Captor for good. Naturally she declined, and told him she wanted nothing to do with him anymore. You probably know the rest better than I.”

“I suppose so. Now it’s about time to find this bastard, so I’m going to be on my way. You ladies have fun.” He stands and pushes his chair in.

Terezi stands too, followed closely by Nepeta. “You didn’t think you’d be going alone, did you? Dave. I expected more from you, honestly,” Terezi huffs. She drops a few coins on the table and heads off in the direction of their rented car.

Nepeta calls out, “Wait fur me!” and flounces after her, skirt fluttering in the warm breeze. 

Dave just watches them go for a second, shakes his head sadly, and jogs to catch up.

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

The latest report from Aradia back in Spain puts Sollux at a small former-military compound about 20 kilometers from the city’s edge. According to satellite imaging and some radio-detection help from a friendly US Air Force “weather” plane, Captor had gotten the post’s radio communications tower back online and was using it as a temporary base of operations. The post was decommissioned long before the Trolls had landed on Earth and using backwards-compatible technology the hacker was able to wire the thing up to output a signal capable of nearly an entire hemisphere.

Despite this, as the trio draws near to it in their rented SUV, the only signs that anyone has set foot near it in thirty years are another set of dusty tire tracks. The daylight is fast escaping, and with it the heat; it’s around 6 o’clock when the compound comes in view. Everything is tan, and there are a few canvas-backed trucks lined in a neat row within a tall fence topped with barbed wire. 

“Okay, so how are we going to do this?” asks Dave, slowing down. The obvious but stupid way would be to simply shoot out the locks and drive right in, break down some doors, and catch Sollux in the middle of stroking his autoerogenous shame globes. The difficult but smart way would be to park a decent distance out, sneak in with some wire cutters, and go room by room without making a sound, and catch Sollux in the middle of stroking his autoerogenous shame globes. Either way the important thing to Dave is that Sollux is a wanker and it’s impossible Aradia or any female could think that nerdy asshole is cuter than him.

“There’s no way he could know we’re coming. We don’t need to worry about perimeter defense or traps. I say we break down the gate,” says Terezi, obviously getting excited. She’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Are you sure?” asks Dave, glancing over at her. 

“Are you questioning the word of a Legislacerator?” She glances back at him, one thin eyebrow raised.

“Whatever. We’ll do it your way. Nepeta? Any objections?”

“I’m up fur anything!” says the greenblood, grinning. There’s a predatory glint to her sharp fangs.

“Alright. Get ready,” says Dave. He revs the engine and shifts up, gaining speed as they rapidly approach the gate. The wire fence crumples from the force of the speeding vehicle and with a painless _bubump bubump_ they’re inside the compound.

Suddenly a lot of things happen at one. First the ground right behind them explodes, lifting the tail of their SUV a foot off the ground and depositing it in a crater. The nose quickly follows as the entire vehicle slides backwards. At the same time a pair of automatic turrets begin spraying them with machine gun rounds, and the last thing Dave sees out of the windshield is scraps of the engine and hood flying up and battering the glass as the line of bullet holes works its way up to the driver’s seat. He rips his seatbelt off and grabs Terezi, compacting himself around her and ducking into the footwell of the passenger’s side. He can’t see anything, so he yells to Nepeta. “What the hell is going on?”

There’s no response.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your _bloody_ tongue?!” he shouts, barely able to hear himself over the sound of the machine gun fire. 

Still no answer. However, before he can yell again, the gunfire stops. 

Finally, Terezi speaks. “Whatever it was, it’s over now.” Her tiny body is completely ensconced within his, and her elevated heartbeat vibrates through his ribs. 

Strider contorts himself out of the footwell and onto the passenger’s seat. The windshield is gone, the upholstery is confetti and Nepeta is nowhere to be found. The sun is glaring through the empty frame and Dave’s sensitive red eyes are forced to squint. 

The agent collects his shades from where they fell on the floor and slides them on. In the softer light, he makes out a shape on the roof. It’s none other than Nepeta Leijon, each clawed hand dangling an automatic machine gun by the long chains of ammo extending out their sides. They seem to be split in two along the barrels. 

“Leijon you bloody lunatic! that was mental!” shouts Strider, jumping out of the ruined SUV and drawing his Walther PPK. Scanning the area for IEDs and traps of any kind, he runs to the main building and slams his back to it. He drops to a low firing position facing the SUV. “Terezi! Go!” he calls.

Terezi is a turquoise blur as she darts out of the SUV. She dashes between cover unlike anything Strider’s ever seen. He can’t compare her movements to anything Earthly. She moves like an alien. A lightning-fast, completely fearless alien.

As she reaches the wall beside him, he gives the universal “ _silence_ ” gesture-- a vertical finger in front of the mouth. He waves his left hand over his shoulder twice-- “ _follow me_ ”-- and makes his way to the door of the main building. He looks at the lock quickly and decides his 9mm isn’t going to do much against the heavy iron locks, so he nods at it. Terezi grips her blade, twists her grip, and with a rising stroke slices an arc around the lock on one side. She flips the blade and brings it down in an opposing arc on the other side. The center of the doors fall away with a heavy iron _thud_ and wobble on the ground.

“ _Ladies first,_ ”whispers Dave. 

Terezi tilts her head to let him know she’s listening. Slowly she steps inside and Dave rushes in after. Landing silently behind them, Nepeta follows close. 

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

The inside of the building doesn’t seem to match the outside at all. The walls are rounded, forming a tunnel. Dave realizes with a start they’re caked with beeswax, purple and shiny with viscous fluid of some sort. The smell is sweet and thick like rotting fruit. There’s no trace of anything human inside. 

“Pyrope, what do you make of this?” he asks quietly.

“Apiculture networking,” she replies, not moving in the slightest. Nepeta spots something and traipses over to one of the walls.

“What is it?” 

“It’s a type of computer system that uses the hive-mind of a colony of bees as serial processing units in a network. Using electro-organic radio spectrum sensors you can detect the bees’ mental wavelength and then it’s a matter of software to yield extremely high processing capability,” she recites. The information sounds memorized.

“Using biological bee brains as computer chips? So in other words, like connecting a million tiny computers with Bluetooth--”

“Except he’s using blue-mandible. Admittedly we haven’t been completely forthright with _all_ Alternian technology. But then really, would humans ever use beehive computers? _Realistically_?”

“Some. I think my brother would flip his shit if he knew this existed. His shit would do an acrobatic--” but before he can finish, Terezi’s grey hand finds his nose again and silences him. A solitary _pap_ echoes with finality through the chamber.

“Nepeta. What are you doing over there?” asks Terezi, turning slightly to face in the vague direction of the troll catgirl.

“…mufin’” says Nepeta. There’s obviously something in her mouth, and now that she’s been caught she’s trying to hide it. She swallows.

“What did you eat?” asks the Legislacerator.

“Nothing!” she repeats. “Maybe just one little bee…”

Terezi swears and looks back towards Dave. “If they didn’t before, they know we’re here now. Get ready. That goes for you too, Leijon!” 

“Give me a fucking break,” comes a low voice from farther down the hallway. Three heads whip towards it. The speaker’s face is shrouded in a hood, small bumps of horns barely obscuring the overall shape. “We’ve known you were here since you were outside the gate.”

Nepeta shouts, “Karkat! It’s been furever!” and runs over to him. She attempts to spring into his arms, but he doesn’t move a muscle. “Karkitty? What’s the matter?”

Karkat’s voice cracks. “Nepeta. I’m so sorry past me couldn’t be a better matesprit. I’m so sorry it has to be this way. But I’ve grown a lot… I’m not the same _person_ I was before. You need to _go_. You need to go away, _right now_.”

Nepeta’s huge gold eyes gaze soulfully at him, watering with tears. “Karkat… What are you talking--” before she can finish her sentence, Karkat raises a hand and strikes her face. The sound of striking flesh echoes down the long hallway.

Dave clenches his teeth. He begins to step towards the robed troll but Terezi grabs his sleeve. He looks back at her and she shakes her head at him. She whispers, “It’s better this way.”

Nepeta crumples, not out of injury but out of shock. “Karkat… You’re so awful…”

“Yeah. I really am the worst,” he says, his voice shivering with suppressed tears. “Now get out.”

Nepeta gathers herself and stands. She walks past Dave and Terezi, silently. She doesn’t look at them. Dave can hear her climb through the hole in the door and abscond. 

Karkat takes off his hood. His red eyes glint like magma at the pair, his face clenched in such a disgusted mask of rage Strider almost smiles in sympathy. 

“...you still love her.” Says Terezi, frowning.

“Yeah. I do.” Karkat chokes.

“Then why…” asks Dave, earning glares from both trolls simultaneously. “No. Don’t give me this ‘you’re an alien you won’t understand’ bullshit. That was the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen in my fucking life and I want to know why.”

Karkat fixes his glare on Strider. “It hardly matters since I’m here to fucking kill you anyway. But I’ll tell you, so you don’t _pity_ her. When Sollux broke me out of prison, he wasn’t saving my life. He was only buying me a bit more _time_. I have _red blood_. I have _motherfucking red blood_ , like a fucking _human_. Do you _know_ … do you _know_ what that fucking _means?!”_

Dave shakes his head. Terezi’s just frowning, looking at the ground.

“I’ll give you a fucking hint. I’m thirty-three sweeps old. Maroon bloods usually live until about forty. I don’t have much time left. Nepeta-- she’ll live well past eighty. Should she--” he chokes. He wraps his arms around himself and finishes in a whisper. “ _Should she have to watch her matesprit die?_ ”

“Then why… Why waste your last few sweeps doing Captor’s dirty work?” Asks Strider.

Vantas’ expression changes completely. He stands taller, and looks right at Dave, one pair of red eyes meeting the other. “Simple. The _future_. Do you think his plans stop at _equality_? Oh _no._ No no no. Sollux is the key to all of this.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“That video you saw? It’s all true. Oh, yes, it’s been a day and a half and the legislature is pouring in. But this is just the beginning. There’s a part two. Sollux does everything in twos.” Karkat grins cruelly, his mouth full of broken and chipped fangs. “He’s on his way to Russia right now-- oh yeah, sorry but you missed him. He’s about to collect his fucking _nuclear submarine_ and commence phase fucking two. You fucking human nook whiffers are never going to know what hit you.”

Dave takes off his shades.

Vantas continues. “Yeah. Enough ICBMs on board to level the capitol of every G-twenty country, and the stealth technology to pull it off without ever being noticed. The age of Humans is about to fucking end. He promised me that day, when he smuggled me out of the prison colony in a _storage container full of actual fucking shit_ , he _said_. In my last days, I’d see a planet of trolls once again.” He turns to look at Terezi. “Just think. A planet of trolls again.” 

To Dave’s dismay, Pyrope actually seems to consider this momentarily.

 He continues. “And if you think you’ll be able to fight back, you’re underestimating Captor. Which tends to be a fatal mistake.”

“Jesus Christ.” says Dave. Out of some sort of reflex, he uncaptchalouges his saber and brandishes it at Karkat. “Well. At the very least I can go out fighting, right? For Humanity and all that.”

Karkat blasts towards him, the shroud of his robe concealing his arms. Dave already knows he’s got a knife in each hand-- he had done a thermal scan of the troll while he was talking, the guy was lit up with blades like a homicidal fucking Christmas tree. He dodges the first two swipes-- Karkat is holding one overhand and one underhand, and his motions sweep in broad patters of two strokes each. Not the ideal style to fight against using a sword.

Strider slides back and lunges, thrusting and immediately recoiling to block a series of quick stabs and slashes. He works a gap in Karkat’s defenses and takes the chance to slash his chest, but the blade merely rips through his cloak and hits nothing. Vantas slashes at him once, twice, three times, the third connecting and drawing blood from his shoulder but the wound is shallow and he’s too jacked on adrenaline to feel pain.

“Terezi, don’t just stand there, do something!” he grunts. Be suddenly he realizes Terezi is nowhere to be found. Where the hell did she go?! “Ergh!” he grunts, as Karkat’s blades find his arm and slice a shallow gash along his bicep. With a roar he brings up a leg and boots Karkat away, but the thin troll doesn’t go down, he deflects the momentum by spinning once and drops into a lower crouch. He’s breathing heavy and perspiration runs down his ash-colored forehead.

“You think you can stop Sollux? Not a chance in fucking hell!” he shouts, and jumps at Dave again. His movements are slower, though, and Dave needs less finesse to deflect his blades. He scores more and more hits on the troll’s torso, flicking his ribs and his shoulders with the tip enough to draw blood-- sure enough, it is red-- and little by little Karkat’s strength leaves him. His slashes come with heavy extols of breaths and his stabs with exhausted wheezes. He moves like someone carrying a great weight he’s trying to conceal. 

Dave realizes despite the way he looks, Vantas is an old man-- feeble, desperate, infirm. The reason he doesn’t look like an old man is he’s going to die of old age before he can even become one. With a final “Aahh-- fuck you-- fffuck you--” he collapses to the ground and ceases to move. Using his blade, Dave flicks the knives away from his hands and maneuvers to his back. Hoisting the troll’s hands behind him, he uncaptchlouges a zip-tie and secures his thumbs. He feels for a pulse. It’s there, but it’s weak.

He looks up to see Terezi returning from the gloom of the hallway with something shiny in her hand. It appears to be a data grub. “This should have all the info we need to deactivate Sollux’s virus-- we won’t even need to blow anything up! Unfortunately.” She grins.

Dave is not amused. “I could have died.”

“I knew you’d be fine,” she says dismissively. “Anyway, with this, we have a fighting chance. Let’s get back to the hotel and report back.” And wasting no time, the Legislacerator trots out through the hole in the door. 

Strider eyes her warily. He’s more and more sure there’s something going on here. He wants to believe in her, and he can’t quite bring himself to accuse her of anything, but his mind reels at the thought of trusting her with his life. What Vriska said is eating at him, in the back of his mind. 

“Terezi Pyrope _cannot be trusted_.”

Dave looks from her to Karkat’s unconscious form. A wave of intense pity washes over him. All the poor bastard had wanted was for something to go right in his short life. “Sorry, mate,” he says quietly, and turns to follow his partner. 


	7. КОНСПИРАЦИЯ or THE BEAUTIFUL LURE

“Yes, It’s lovely and all, but why a train?” insists Strider, gripping an overpriced bottle of water accusatorially and glaring at the back of Pyrope’s head. “I understand why we can’t fly there, but why not simply rent another car?”

“We don’t know how deep Captor could have his hooks in here,” replies Terezi, not peeling herself away in the slightest from her current position of pressing her face against the glass of the window. “But a mass-transit system is safest. He’s probably paid off every rental-car agency in Fez to give us one with a tracking device on it.”

“Granted you’re right, what’s the point of going at all if we’re not going to catch him in time?” Dave sips his water, mouth still dusty from their trip through the desert. Terezi had effortlessly hot-wired one of the army trucks, and it had gotten them within a mile or two of their hotel before it ran out of fuel and sputtered to a stop. There they’d bid farewell to Nepeta, who was in no condition to do any more adventuring, imagined or otherwise. The poor girl was a mess, fat olive-colored tears running down her chin and shoulders slumped the whole way. They left the truck parked outside a market square, blended in with the crowd-- surprisingly easily, thanks to the high tourist population-- and split up, Dave and Terezi walking the rest of the way to their lodgings. Immediately after gathering their things and checking out, they covered the few blocks to the local train station and boarded an express to the airport. Due to the US’s pesky insistence on controlling the airspace above most of Northern Africa, Aradia had sent them travel itineraries ordering them to head back to the Continent, specifically Paris, and board a passenger train to Istanbul. 

It’s going to take two full days.

The first train ride isn’t long, and neither is the plane flight. But Dave is anxious the whole time, as if the minutes they lose for the flight attendant’s speech are going to really matter in the long run. Paris is a smoky pit as usual-- Dave never had much of a taste for any part of France north of Montpellier. They don’t spend any time there they don’t need to; after Terezi licked her way through _Amelie_ ’s Technicolor Dreamland version of the city of lights _,_ the real thing disappointed her too.

In the forty-seven dusky minutes between their flight landing and the newly-reopened Orient Express’ departure, they have time for a cup of coffee and some truly fantastic croissants at the train station. Before they board the massive crimson engine, the travelers take a moment to admire it. The sparklingly clean red paint is emblazoned with gold-foil lettering replicating the vintage styling of the original Orient Express that operated from the 40’s to the 60’s. The modern re-imagining of the wold-famous line promises to recapture the glamour, excitement and-- as it is France after all-- _je nais se quoi_ of the original.

Slightly less bitter at the prospect of the long ride for having witnessed the engine’s beauty, Strider boards the train and locates their sleeper car. It has two neat berths, and a pair of seats along the window. Dave slips his Sennheisers out of his carryon and connects them to his iPhone. Looping the headphones around his collar, he settles into his seat and stows his bag under. Terezi flops down next to him, grinning.

“I love trains! Way more fun than airplanes,” she grins.

“Way more slow,” counters Dave, scrolling down his list of artists. Settling on the new Eighteenth Street Lounge compilation, he reclines the seat as far as it’ll go and slides on his cans.

Terezi leans over him in a manner reminiscent of a housecat being held under the armpits and presses her face to the glass. It’s too dark outside to see anything, but that’s certainly never stopped her before.

“Look, d’you want to change seats?” he asks after a minute. She’s stretched out in a way they looks very uncomfortable, but just as in the other train, and the airplane, and come to think of it most car rides he’s shared with her, she can’t seem to help smashing her face to the window as if in an effort to melt through the glass.

“Yeah! I like the window seat,” she says, momentarily six sweeps old. Dave can’t help but smirk slightly, his hipster sensibilities always somehow awarding him “points” for getting other people to admit they legitimately _enjoy_ something-- a _faux pas_ he’d never even consider committing.

He and Terezi trade seats, but instead of sitting down he decides to stretch his legs. He unplugs his cans and places them on the seat, then looks from one end of the hallway to the other. He makes for the lounge car, which the line’s brochure promises is “classic.” As he arrives he determines this means beautiful modern wood styling and a Continental treatment of the concept of utility that ekes every ounce of beauty out of the mundane. Each iron barstool is build to last a century but suitable for feature in a museum. The roof is gilded in opulent patterning and actual velvet-shaded lamps every few feet illuminate the fine detail, recasting their rapturous glow downwards onto the passengers. It’s pushing ten o’clock, so the collection of travelers present are mostly here for drinks. He settles onto a stool and orders a Black Russian.

An _actual_ Russian couple behind him are only just now taking their supper-- perhaps they haven’t caught up to the time zone yet-- and Dave amuses himself for a few moments eavesdropping on their conversation. It’s mundane, as he expected, but he’s able to pick out enough nouns and verbs to piece together the events of the day they’re concluding. Strider ruminates for a moment what it would be like to go on a vacation with a wife. Images of girls he’s considered proposing to flash through his mind. There had been a couple of female Naval officers he had considered, but had decided against-- one because while he was galvanizing himself to propose she’d been given new orders and stationed halfway around the world, one because while he was galvanizing himself to propose _he_ ’d given new orders and stationed halfway around the world. Then there had been a secretary, his third, a truly wonderful, witty, and charming young woman whom he’d dropped like a hot shell casing after he found out she went to night school studying _drama_. There’d been Jade-- _God_ what was he _thinking_ \-- but fortunately matrimony might still be in her future, whether she wants it or not. Bluebloods can be _very_ persuasive.

Taking a last pull on his drink, Dave chews the inside of his mouth slightly and looks around the ornate train car. There are three others at the five-seat bar, all to his right-- the seat to his left is free. They seem to be Scottish backpackers, barely twenty and by their gangly limbs and consonant-flinging accents from somewhere near Perth. In his opinion, they’re cheapening the grandeur of the scene, but hey, he’d done plenty of grandeur-cheapening around Europe himself as a twenty-year-old cadet.

As he orders himself a whiskey and soda, a dark figure settles primly onto the seat next to him. He looks over. A female with lighter skin then average for a troll, short hair in a slightly boyish style, asymmetrical horns. She withdraws a cigarette holder and a pack of Russian smokes out of her clutch purse, then taps on the top of the box like a conductor for one to offer itself to her. Dave watches her fix the white cigarette into the black holder and as soon as she begins to bring it to her lips he’s already got his old fleet lighter in front of her, merrily-dancing flame illuminating her classic features. With the holder between two gloved fingers, she fully leans forward to allow the end to catch. After a moment, she props her elbow on the bar between them, cigarette pointed up, and nearly knocks Dave fully off his stool with her smile.

“Rare to see a gentleman in France these days,” she says. Her accent is Russian and high-quality. Her eyes are narrow and expressive, light dusting of mascara accentuating the color-- they’re jade green, a shade he’s never before witnessed in a troll, and she’s gazing at him with a slightly predatory look. Her lipstick is jade-green to match. She’s wearing a sleeveless black dress decorated with piping in a metallic green, a Virgo-shaped pin on one breast, and elbow-length gloves. Either the vintage train has kindled in her a flair for the romantic or she had one already, but Dave can always appreciate someone who knows how to dress. 

He pockets his lighter. “I’d imagine so, I’m a complete scoundrel as well.” He waves over the bartender. “Two Debonairs, please,” he says over his shoulder to the waistcoated Frenchman. Turning back to the girl, he asks, “So what are you called?”

“I’m Miriam,” she says, reclining slightly. Dave shivers slightly as she turns the R over on her tongue. “And you, scoundrel?”

“The name’s Strider. Dave Strider,” he says, receiving the drinks from the bartender. He hands one to the girl. “What are we toasting?”

“In honor of this marvelous train… How about the past?” she replies, taking the small goblet by the stem between dainty grey fingers.

“To the past.” The glasses meet.

Amber liquid meets green lips as Miriam takes an experimental sip. She smiles and finishes the drink quickly. Dave places his half-full glass on the bar and smiles back at her.

“What was that?” she asks in a tone of wonder.

“Ginger liqueur, whiskey and lemon. Eye-catching, exotic, and unusually bold-- I couldn’t think of a cocktail more suited to order for you.”

The girl’s cheeks take on a greenish hue. “You _are_ a scoundrel. How many girls have you used that line on?”

“I usually just order them a watery American lager and hope they’re already too drunk to notice,” he replies, draining his glass and motioning down the bar for two more. “So where are you heading, Ms. Miriam?”

“I’m going all the way to Istanbul. There’s someone there I’m looking for,” she says, receiving her second drink from the bartender with a little smile. She seems a little melancholy, but the smile is genuine. That or she’s a very good actress.

“Someone who would object to me buying you another drink?” Dave quirks a blond eyebrow.

“Not that kind of someone. My quadrants are a little vacant these days…” admits the girl with some reluctance. She takes the goblet in both hands and sips, gold-green eyes nervously meeting his, blush spreading.

Dave is entranced. “Trapped on a train for two days with no one to distract you from your own sorrow. That _is_ romantic.”

She giggles, placing her drink back on the bar. “Oh, stop. You’re saying silly things. It’s not sorrow so much.”

“Oh? So you’re one of those troll vampires who go around preying on doe-eyed innocent young women? Rainbow drinkers, I think it was?”

“Are you calling me a monster?” she says, still smiling.

“You are a particularly charming abomination and I fear for my life,” replies Dave.

“I like rainbow drinkers. I should very much like to be thought of as this kind of monster.” concludes Miriam, then finishes her drink. “I have had enough of alcohol and now I shall retire. You will come with me?”

Dave takes her thin hand and she leads him out of the lounge car. As they leave the lamplit room and enter the dim hallway, he notices her skin takes on a slight glow. “Er, Miriam. D’you know you’re glowing?” he asks her.

“I know exactly where I’m going. And you too,” she says, winking over a shoulder that looks to be carved from iridescent marble.

Dave gulps and shuts up. Okay, so she actually _is_ a rainbow drinker. No problem, they don’t drink human blood. He’s safe.

Right?

She pulls him into her sleeper car, a one-berth affair, decorated in a similar manner to the lounge car. The furniture is durable but immensely beautiful wrought iron and mahogany, the windows curtained in velvet, with small lamps along the ceiling and an ornate Persian rug on the floor to complete the picture, like a sound stage from _Casablanca_. The car is overwhelmingly maroon and yellow in coloration, thanks to the redwood and gold leaf everywhere, but Miriam’s various possessions scattered about add color and detail-- several dresses folded over the back of a chair which give the impression she took a while to dress, a makeup kit on the counter by the small sink, a green laptop computer charging next to a piece of Coach luggage.

He reels slightly as she turns to face him. She hadn’t bothered to turn the lights in the room on, but her glow is almost overwhelming. He unconsciously raises a hand to cover his already-shaded eyes, but she takes a step and then she’s standing _very_ close to him. She gingerly brings one of her hands up and removes his glasses, carefully and deliberately folding each temple, and places them on the small table next to them. She gazes into his eyes, her own half-lidded and fogged slightly with desire.

Suddenly she’s kissing him, _hungrily_. Her arms wrap around him and she presses her thin body into his. He reacts in turn, kissing her back, running his callused fingers down her smooth back and enjoying the sensation of her soft skin on his fingertips. She’s an insatiable beast, practically devouring his mouth, nibbling his lip and biting his tongue just enough to hurt but still feel good. As he draws a hand up her spine and another down her back, tracing the green piping of her dress down to the swell of her hip, she moans into his mouth.

Finally she breaks away, glancing up at him, locking eyes. “Bed,” she says, and drags him to the berth. On the way across the small room, she manages to remove both his jacket and shirt. She tosses the agent onto the bed effortlessly, makes sure he’s watching, then turns around. She draws the zipper on the back of her dress down _slowly_ , inch after inch of glowing white skin illuminating Strider’s uncovered face. He observes in awe as the muscles of her back bunch as she shrugs off the straps of the dress. His gaze travels from the nape of her neck, to the curves of her smooth shoulders, to her black hair sparking in the glow of her own skin. She lets the dress fall to the floor and turns towards him. All that’s protecting her modesty at this point is a pair of what might pass for underwear in some literal sense, and Dave settles in the bed, smiling. “You really are a beast, taking advantage of me like this.”

“You are perhaps suggesting you’d like to stop?” she asks, covering her breasts with her forearms and giving him a disappointed look.

“Not on your life. Or death, rather. You are, aren’t you?” Dave sits up as she approaches.

“Yes. But everything is so much more _fun_ on this side!” she giggles, and crawls onto the bed over him, pushing him against the wall and kissing him again. “Have you ever, er…” She looks at him significantly. “With a rainbow drinker before?”

Dave can’t help but laugh. “Darling, I didn’t even know there _were_ rainbow drinkers until five minutes ago.”

“Well. A certain amount of… _ceremony_ must be observed. I hope you can see where I’m going with this.” She opens her mouth slightly, and her fangs gleam.

Oh, _shit_.

“I have no regrets. Make it quick, I’ve been tortured before and I shouldn’t like to be again. _Bon appetit_ ,” says Strider, not completely joking.

“ _Buon appetito_. We crossed into Italy an hour ago,” replies the girl casually, then lunges and bites down on his neck. Surprisingly, there’s very little pain, just a pinching sensation and some pressure. After a couple seconds, she withdraws. Dave shivers at the loss of contact, but she just strokes his face and whispers, “Shhhh. You’re going great.” She brings her green lips down to his neck again and begins to suck at the small wounds. It’s unlike anything Strider’s ever felt before, but the overwhelming sensation causes him to shiver all the more.

After a minute the rainbow drinker withdraws, and from a drawer in the bedside table she withdraws a pair of band-aids and a handkerchief. She carefully licks up any extraneous blood and wipes the area clean, then sticks the band-aids on. Only when she’s done does Dave remember to breathe.

“Now you’ve been great, so it’s time for a reward,” she says as she traces a slightly bloody finger down his bare chest, along his flat stomach, and to the button of his trousers. Her eyes are practically _burning_ and the glow of her skin is brighter by the second. She unhooks the button. “So nice of that Sollux to send me such a delicious treat,” and she yanks down the zipper, revealing the folds of his boxer shorts.

“Sollux? What’s he got to do with anything?” asks Dave, dreamily reclining back onto the bed and stretching his arms.

“He’s your boss, right?” asks Kanaya, sitting up suddenly.

“Haha, no, he’s the bastard I’m heading to Istanbul to kill,” chuckles Dave.

Kanaya stops messing with Dave’s pants. “So we’re on the same side?”

“I suppose, if you were looking for Sollux too,” Dave sighs. “Hey, why’d you stop?”

Kanaya stands up and crosses to the make-up table, slides on a dressing gown, and begins to re-apply her lipstick. “I was going to try to get Sollux’s location out of you. If you don’t know, you’re no use to me at all.”

“What? But... We can still have fun, right?” says Dave, incredulously.

“Perhaps _you_ were having fun. I don’t even _like_ men,” she says, bringing her lips together to even out the emerald lipstick.

“But… But…” Dave’s having a hard time wrapping his mind around this.

“Occupational hazard,” says Kanaya, turning back to him, smiling apologetically. “Sorry.”

Dave points to the noticeable tenting in his trousers. “What am I gonna do about this?!” He practically shouts.

“You’re a resourceful guy. I’m sure you can figure something out. Now if you’d please see yourself out?”

 

O+O+O+O+O

  
  


Dave returns to his and Terezi’s room and raps twice on the door. Terezi opens it quickly. She’s wearing a red satin floor-length kimono when Dave crosses the threshold she adjusts the garment to cover more of her chest. “You smell like _blood!_ ” she exclaims.

“Had a run in with a-- you know what, let me just tell you tomorrow. I just want to go to sleep.” He undresses and crawls up to his berth. Going over the events of the evening in his head, he wonders if it might have all been a dream, or imagined. Maybe, he thought with a shiver, someone had drugged his drink and he’d wake up strapped to a makeshift surgery table. But drawing the thin blankets over him, his fingers brush the band-aids on his neck. It had all been real... and he was going to have to go talk to her tomorrow, pool info, bring Terezi, pretend nothing had happened. Of course, Terezi would figure it out immediately, and then she’d have one more thing to hold over him forever.

He rolls over onto his side and looks at Terezi. She’s preparing for bed as well. He wonders what it must have been like for trolls to get used to the idea of “beds.” They’d always used a heavy intoxicant as a sleep aid. Many wealthy trolls still used recuperacoons, and some hotels provided them for troll guests. She takes a small orange bottle-- a prescription bottle-- out of her luggage and takes two pills. She unties the sash at her waist and removes her kimono and for a brief moment her body is revealed to Dave.

That glimpse explains so much more about her than any conversation they’d ever had. From her neck to her ankles, her sinewy frame is covered in scars, burns, and healed-over wounds of every nature. Why hadn’t he seen it before? He’d thought her merely a ruthless cop, out to get “justice” for some reason he’d never bothered to try and figure out. But seeing her body, knotted with muscle and the souvenirs of pain endured told him the truth. She prized justice over her very life. How many of those wounds had been the result of taking a bullet for a partner? Or attempting to hold off an entire gang her so a victim could escape? And suddenly the agent would bet his every penny he’s got that despite knowing him for a matter of days, she’d do the same for him.

He starts thinking about what Vriska said. Perhaps the one who can’t be trusted is actually her. And she’d been wrong about Sollux’s video being fake, too. Was that an attempt at misdirection? Who was it who actually knew what was going on? Perhaps Kanaya would have answers.

Between his growing uncertainty and Terezi’s sleeptalking-- a loud “ _OBJECTION!_ ” every twenty minutes or so-- Dave doesn’t get much sleep that night.

  
  



	8. LA TRICOTEUSE or THE SLAUGHTERER

 

“Count Strider!” comes a sharp voice, rousting you from your sleep at once. It’s a stern, female voice-- the Marquise! She’s rapping on your door angrily. You spring out of your berth, slide on most of your uniform in seconds, and open the door even as you’re still tucking in your shirt. You stand at attention before the senior officer and crisply salute.

“Good morning Ma’am, everything in order?”

“Would I be waking you in the middle of the day if it was?” she responds. “Out of my way, I’m coming in. You got coffee?” The imposing woman doesn’t wait for a response and shoves you out of the doorway, red boots stepping over the knee-knocker and clicking smartly on the tile floor of your modest officers’ quarters.

“Er, no Ma’am, used my rations for the perigee up already, I’m afraid. Been surviving on soda from the machines,” you say as you shut the door and _clank_ the lever closed.

“Now look here, Count Strider. You’re the first officer I’m coming to about this because as far as I’m concerned you’re the most capable of doing anything about it. We got trouble in a big way, and I hope you know when I say we got trouble I mean it.” The Marquise’s dark blue eyes gleam. She leans on the bulkhead, flips her long snarls of hair over her shoulder and begins to light a cigarette.

“Ma’am, there’s no smoking--” you begin. But hell, if she’s doing it, you might as well. “Never mind.” You light one for yourself and inhale the smoke deep into your lungs. The feel of your lighter is comfortably familiar, but the design stamped on it is different. Strange.

“There’s a Legislacerator on our tail. I don’t think it’s going to be an issue, but I want you or a petty officer you trust manning comms at all times. We want to be ready when she catches up, and I don’t know what craft she’s using.”

“Very good, Ma’am.”

“On the off chance it’s an airborne craft, have weapons aimed skywards at all times, too.”

“Anything else, Ma’am?”

“Don’t run out of coffee again. I’ll get your department a bit extra ‘cause your shifts are going to get longer but that’s going to come out of another department’s supply, you know.”

“My apologies, Ma’am.”

“Get to work.” And with a whirl of her black and blue tailcoat, she’s gone. You look out the porthole. It’s bright out, enough to hurt your eyes. You squint and look out at the lagoon through which Marquise Spinneret Mindfang’s Gamblignant fleet is currently sailing. You shut the porthole closed and your reflection on the glass startles you. Grey skin, yellow eyes, sharp horns. Have you always been a troll? You can’t remember.

Suddenly the sky is dark and you’re standing in the bridge. There’s a white speck on the horizon. You’re in the middle of giving a report to the skipper. The words flow without you remembering having started. “...You were right about her being airborne, but you were wrong about it being a craft.”

“What the hell does that mean?” She’s pacing in front of the windowed wall above the foredeck. Her fangs are worrying her blue bottom lip angrily.

“It’s her lusus. It’s a _dragon_.”

“Bullshit!” barks the Marquise, slamming her fist on a console. “No stinking tealblood has a _dragon_ for a lusus. You must have misheard the comms.”

“I’m afraid it’s not bullshit in the slightest, Ma’am. Based on our data she could be here inside of a night. She could be here _to_ night,” you admit with regret.

“Well what the fuck are we doing standing around talking about it? Battle stations!”

No one moves.

“Why the bulge-polishing _FUCK_ are you all just standing around?!” she screams, as the white point on the horizon in the window behind her grows larger.

Three red flashes issue from the white shape, which has become a wavy line. They manifest as balls of flame and tear through the hulls of three ships to the fore of yours. Explosions crack through the air, slamming you to the ground, and the ships sink too fast for a single troll to escape. There’s nothing to be done. She is already here.

Mindfang reaches for her trusty Fluorite Octet but realizes with a scowl she left them somewhere belowdecks. She turns to you and the rest of the officers assembled on deck. “Save yourselves, men! If you think I’m going down with the ship, you’re sorely mistaken!” And with a powerful kick, she shatters the glass of the observation window and leaps out of sight.

You turn to the others. One of them is crying. You look back at the white shape. You can see a smaller shape on it. A teal and red shape. A woman.

Then there’s another red flash and heat and _sweet mother grub it hurts and_

Dave Strider awakens to the sensation of falling and immediately realizes his sheets are soaked in sweat. It’s barely light outside but it must be almost forty fucking degrees in the train car. He glances at his iPhone on the small table next to his berth. He has a couple of missed texts. He also has a pounding headache and his stomach is killing him. It occurs to him he hasn’t eaten anything substantial in a long time. It occurs to him last night a _fucking vampire drank his blood._ Heaving a deep sigh, he sits up, causing the room to spin.

Sliding out of the berth, he reaches into his luggage and pulls out a hand towel and gets to work drying himself off. Terezi’s nowhere in sight so he locks the door, takes off his underwear and does an extra-thorough job. He gets dressed in his lightest clothes, combs his hair, dons his shades and retrieves his cell phone.

The text is from Vriska. _D8ve! You’re n8t in d8nger yet but watch 8t for any female trolls on that tr8n! Esp glowing ones! xxxxxxxx_

 

Strider puts his phone down and rubs his temples. There’s a note on the table, folded neatly, that he hadn’t noticed before. The note is written in jade-green ink in a loopy, feminine hand, with an addendum in teal.

 

 

Dear Mr. Strider,

I’m Sorry About The Events Of Last Night. Reviewing Them In My Head I Can Only Conclude That I Was An Utter Ass And Id Like To Make It Up To You. Please Come By My Car For Breakfast.

Signed,

Kanaya Maryam

 

P.S. Miriam Is My Cover Name. Again I Am Sorry

 

1 W3NT 4H34D, HOP3 YOU DON’T M1ND- T

 

Strider swallows and looks at his watch. Despite the room being a solar cooker--he’s already begun sweating-- it’s only half past seven. He opens a window to get some air flowing, then heads out towards the Russian troll’s car.

Arriving outside the elegant room, he pauses at the sound of two women laughing. It must be the two trolls. He can’t make out their conversion, and he doesn't feel like snooping, so he simply knocks twice and walks in.

Two pairs of eyes turn to look at him. “You look like hell!” giggles Terezi. “What _happened_ to you?”

Dave frowns. “Look? You can’t _see_.”

The Legislacerator only giggles harder. Meanwhile, Kanaya-- that was her name, Kanaya-- is looking serious.

“Agent Strider. I am so sorry for--”

“Love, please, I read the letter. I’m not one to hold grudges, and I’ve done worse to enemy agents in the past. If anything, I must compliment your style.”

The green-eyed troll smiles, her needle-sharp fangs extending from her jade top lip. She’s wearing one of the dresses that had been on the chair yesterday, a pale pink empire-waisted one with a red sash, pinned at the hip with a glittering Virgo-shaped emblem in emerald. Her skin isn’t glowing in the daylight, but it glimmers like pearl nonetheless. Completing the outfit is a straw boater hat with a matching red ribbon. She’s sitting stock-straight, posture rivaling Aradia’s, even, before a small cup of coffee on a saucer sitting on the table.

“So the charm wasn’t an act. I’m glad we’re on the same side.”

“Me too… I’d hate to find out what you’d have had in store for me otherwise.”

“Now that agent Strider is here,” interrupts Pyrope, “We can get started. Essentially we’re pooling information regarding the whereabouts and status of Sollux Captor.” She takes a slurp from her coffee cup.

Dave takes the Turkish coffee pot Kanaya offers him and pours himself a small cup. He sniffs it and almost falls off his chair. Drinking it is like having a heated debate with Satan, Prince of Darkness, and winning.

Reeling slightly, he puts the small cup down on its saucer and looks up at the two women. “Okay, what have we got?”

Kanaya frowns. “He’s almost certainly in Turkey by now. Realistically, but the time we get there, he’ll have made contact with his people.”

“His people?” Dave asks.

“To be honest I don’t know who they are for sure, and believe me I’ve tried to find out. I work for the SVR, but I’m sure you’ve figured that out already.”

Dave hadn’t ‘figured out’ that she worked for Russia’s foreign intelligence service, or indeed put any thought into the matter, but he was glad she was giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“We’ve narrowed it down to a small organization known as the... er, “ _feutre_ ”… that is, er, what is it called, the cloth on a billiards table?”

“Felt?” supplies Dave.

“Yes. They are known as The Felt. A small ex-military organization operating out of Moldova, with access to almost unlimited wealth thanks to its founders.”

“Do we know the founders?”

“We know one. He is one of those men who made many lifetimes worth of fortunes from the communist system, carefully destroying any record of his existence every step of the way, leaving traces here and there to point to him only out of vanity. In his old age, his senility is quite severe, fancies himself a god of sorts. He is known, among those who know of him, as Doctor Scratch. Even less known about his employer. I can give you no details besides the fact he’s assumed to be a member of English nobility.”

Dave prickles at this. “You’re saying the bloke selling Captor a Russian sub is English?”

“I’m saying it’s assumed. We know nothing more.”

Dave makes a note to look into this mysterious English lord sometime in the future. For now, though… “So this Doc Scratch and his gang of pool enthusiasts are in the green, and have access to all manner of weapons. What else do we know?”

“Really, that’s about it. They stole a prototype nuclear sub _somehow_ , transported it across four borders _somehow_ , and _somehow_ have it staged on Turkey’s west coast to launch in to the Mediterranean sea as soon as Sollux gets there. With a little money, you can get away with anything in Eastern Europe, and these fellows definitely have _a little_ money.”

“So what do we do next?” Dave pours himself another cup of coffee. Noticing a tray of biscotti beside the Turkish pot, he helps himself to one.

Terezi speaks. “I contacted Aradia. She has requested we fly to New York. We’re going to meet up with the Egberts, John and Rose, to discuss the next parts of the plan when we get there.”

“Why New York?” asks Dave though a mouthful of biscuit.

“That’s his first target,” she replies. She’s not smiling.

 

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

 

Upon returning to their room, Dave turns to face Terezi. “Okay. What did she tell you?”

Pyrope grins her too-familiar shark grin. “Why agent Strider! I have no idea what you might be--”

“Stuff it, I heard you were laughing before I came in. What did she tell you?”

“We weren’t even talking about you, Mr. Ego. We were talking about a certain someone we’ve both had romantic entanglements with in the past.”

“And it’s not me?” Asks Dave, frowning sarcastically.

“No. But you know her. I believe she goes by the name ‘Spiderbitch’ these days? With an eight where the ‘b’ should be?”

“Oh God, _she_ knows _her_?” Thinking about it, though, it makes some sense.

“I wonder who’s ‘she’ and who’s ‘her’, Dave,” says Terezi, still smiling. “You haven’t been keeping familiar with Serket after I specifically told you not to, have you?”

“Goddamnit, Pyrope, we have a professional relationship. She provides information to me from time to time. I can’t rely on official documents for everybody, sometimes I need an _opinion_!”

“And what is her _opinion_ on me?” Snaps Pyrope. Her smile is gone.

“Oh, who’s got the ego now? Afraid she said you were a poor lay?” Dave’s getting legitimately angry now.

“How dare you! You have _no idea_ what we went through before you were even _born!_ You have _no idea_ how bad it got!”

“Humor me.”

“Imagine your friends-- the people dear to you. They won’t see you anymore because you… Because you know Vriska. Rumor is she’s your matesprit. They hear stories, see, about a weird girl who lives in a castle. Her lusus _eats_ trolls, and she _feeds_ them to her. And then Vriska tells you she likes your friend, the cute guy with the long hair and curvy horns, who you used to go out for drinks with. His name is Phelix and he rolls his own cigarettes and can schoolfeed anyone on bartending and he smells like motorskycycle fuel. You were flushed for him from the moment you saw him.”

“Terezi, I’m--”

“No, shut up. I’m not done. She whines and she whines, guilts you into it, until you both come to her place one night. She spends the whole time flirting with him. He doesn’t respond, he squeezes your hand, he says ‘TZ, let’s get out of here’ quiet enough he thinks she can’t hear. So she reaches out, with her mind. You feel your hand wrapping around the handle of the knife, you watch-- as you pick it up--”

“Terezi, that’s enough!” Dave shouts.

“She made me do it!” Terezi shouts back. “She just sat there and laughed. Just another snack for her lusus, just an obstacle eliminated between her and me. Phelix was the first. Then my other friends started disappearing, one by one.”

“So you joined the Legislacerators why? To get revenge? To make it up somehow?”

“No! To _protect_ myself from her. She was red for me, but her way of showing it was to kill everyone I knew. I haven’t been close enough to her since then… To hurt her.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of? Or are you afraid she’ll hurt you?”

“She’d never hurt me. But If I see her on this planet, I’d definitely hurt her. I’m afraid to be _like_ her,” is all she says. She turns around. She doesn’t make a sound, but it’s obvious by the shaking of her shoulders she’s fighting tears and she doesn’t want him to see. “Let’s just go.”

 

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

 

Dave is afraid to talk to Terezi for the rest of their journey. They and Kanaya get off in Bucharest and catch a nonstop to New York City, on which Strider mostly sleeps and the troll women spend the majority of the twelve-hour flight crocheting and watching lawyer shows on Kanaya’s laptop, respectively. They collect their luggage and hire a taxi to the closest tube station in the direction of Legislacerators HQ, Manhattan.

Terezi’s resumed her usual demeanor right away, but Dave isn’t able to shake off her story as easily as that. The whole flight he’d been plagued with visions-- the same scenario each time, with little details changed. One time he’s sitting at a stately club restaurant, beside his boss Mr. Egbert, and opposite Vriska. She smiles at him as he picks up a wooden-handled steak knife and drives it through the unassuming man’s breastbone. Blood cascades from the wound, spraying up Strider’s arm, running in rivulets down his glasses. Some of it gets in his mouth and the agent’s memory supplies the taste of times he’s been beaten badly enough to taste blood. Like a record scratch, he’s sitting again and instead of the club he’s at a fisherman’s bar in Jamaica, and this time it’s a clam knife, and Vriska’s sharp fangs gleam in the half-light as he draws the short blade across the throat of-- _Jesus Christ--_ Jade Harley. The way she looks at him stops his heart, but behind him Vriska’s laughter never stops. Even as he woke up, the high cackle continued to ring in his ears.

The tube passes as the last step in a long journey usually does-- impatiently. Dave really wants to be inside a normal building, and even though he knows most Alternian structures aren’t normal in the sense of gothic arches and art-deco spires, it’s still something he can take a little comfort in. It’s still early afternoon in America, so even though Dave is wiped out from travel, he knows he’ll be expected to sit through several briefings and probably a social engagement or two. New Yorkers always assume it’s their job to “welcome” him to the states, as though he’s never been before, but if he gets a steak and a single-malt out of it, it won’t be that bad.

The New York Legislacerators HQ is a proud building, not like the unassuming and even hidden one underneath the sun-baked dirt of Madrid. Occupying several floors of a modern office high-rise, they’re greeted by a besuited troll doorman who asks apologetically to see their IDs before ushering them to a bank of elevators, swiping the ID card attached to his chest. The elevator opens immediately and he escorts them inside.

They arrive on the building’s sixth floor, the bottommost one occupied by the agency. Passing through the requisite modern-design double-glass doors, the three draw the attention of every figure inside, human and troll alike. They are taken to a conference room, whereupon the doorman/security guard exits and they are left alone. A young human man comes in a fluster and asks if there’s anything he can get them. Dave asks for the biggest cup of coffee they’ve got, which earns a giggle from Terezi, who is fine with tea, as is Kanaya. Terezi is grinning in anticipation for another round of briefings, and her glimmering teeth are reflected off every glass surface in the room, which is constituted mainly of reflective furniture. The room’s wall facing the rest of the office is glass as well, so they’re free to observe the comings and goings of the various Legislacerators, secretaries, paralegals and humans of every descriptions, but they can’t hear a thing besides the _whirrr_ of the air conditioner.

Dave begins to piece the operation together in his mind. He watches a sharply-dressed human man hand a file to a Troll in teal and red, who grins a familiar shark-like grin. They converse for a second before shaking hands and going their separate ways. A lawyer handing crucial case info to the Alternain, a green light to get started with the dirty work?

After a few minutes in which Terezi and Kanaya chat about ancient history and sip their tea, three figures enter the room. One is the older troll Dave recognizes from their briefing back in Spain, the chief. He’s dressed in a teal three-piece suit with broad pinstripes and a red pocket square and necktie.

The other two he recognizes as well-- John and Rose Egbert. John is grinning ear-to-ear, dressed in vintage jeans and a leather blazer over a t-shirt adorned with the Japanese movie poster for the first _Star Wars_. The effect of the blazer is lessened slightly by the smattering of buttons along one lapel, bearing such slogans as “I BELIEVE”, “THEY’RE OUT THERE”, and “UFO PATROL”, as well as a small Aries pin. He’s wearing designer glasses an expensive haircut that perfectly emulates the “just got out of bed” look, or maybe he really did just get out of bed. Rose is wearing a charcoal-grey avant-chic dress decorated with alternating crisscross patterns, her short blonde hair shining in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. Expensive-looking bangles adorn her thin wrists, and the collection of necklaces around her statuesque neck shimmer with each step. The two couldn’t look more different, but in aggregate they make quite a couple.

John speaks first. “Agent Strider! Welcome to the States, man! We’re so stoked to be working with you!”

“Thanks. Glad to be here,” replies Dave, swallowing his coffee and standing up. He crosses the room to shake hands with the black-haired man, then takes Rose’s and kisses it. “Madam,” he says. As he brings his head up, he’s annoyed to find she’s looking at Kanaya.

“Charmed. Now, shall we get to it?” says Rose. She places a black folio on the board table, opens it, and pulls out a few folders. “We don’t have much to go over here. John?”

John pokes something on his Droid and an image appears on the large screen. The two troll women have to turn around to see it. It’s a set of design specs for the submarine Sollux is currently assumed to be aboard.

“Captor is crossing the Atlantic at a hundred knots, or roughly fast enough to cross from Istanbul to New York in twenty-eight hours. It took off between eight and ten hours ago, meaning the optimum time to intercept will be tomorrow at noon," says John, flipping through slides of the submarine. “We’re going to do this like so.” He clicks to a picture of a small two-man submersible. “Agent Strider and Legislacerator Pyrope will be aboard a small undersea stealth vehicle we’ve dubbed ‘The Remora.’ There’s a hatch on the bottom of this submarine that will break away when triggered, allowing the vehicle to fill with water. You will then attach the vehicle to the hull of Captor’s submarine.”

“Attach?” asks Dave.

“Like a remora attaching to a larger fish, yes. The mechanism for doing this is using magnets to seal your craft to the hull. You will then use the onboard pumps to eject all the water from the cabin. This will will create a vacuum that will seal the pod in place. All you need to do is get in the right place and let the water pressure do the rest.”

“Brilliant!” grins Terezi. “Then what?”

“Then you simply drill through the hull and enter the submarine.”

“Simple!” say Dave sarcastically. “Using acetylene torches, I suppose, in a pod with no oxygen in it?”

“We’ll make sure you have plenty of oxygen, but I’m glad you’re paying attention this time,” quips Rose, smirking. Kanaya smiles at her.

“In conclusion,” speaks the elder troll, “You two will head towards Sollux’s boat and latch onto it, drill through the hull, and then it’s up to you to figure out how to stop the submarine and incapacitate Captor. We’d prefer you get him alive, but if the alternative is New York ending up a smoking crater, feel free to use lethal force. Your timeline for this mission will allow you approximately two hours to accomplish this. Should be plenty of time.”

“Aye aye, sir. But I have a couple questions,” says Dave.

“Go ahead.”

“Firstly, why send this little sub with the two of us in it instead of calling the Navy?”

“Sollux doesn’t have to be near New York to fire a missile at it. If something like a frigate shows up on his radar, he’ll be more than happy to fire the missiles from hundreds of miles out. According to the Russians,” a nod at Kanaya, “it’s part of his plan to get right to the island, but for no logically discernible reason.”

“How can we be sure?”

“I happen to have friends in Russia. It’s not your concern right now, but I promise you can be sure.”

“...Very well. Next question, Why not just blow the thing up? Why do we have to stop it and capture an international terrorist alive?”

“Because he hasn’t actually hurt a soul yet. We’ve had our best Legislacerators and human lawyers scouring every trace of his activity since the video came out and there’s nothing that can tie him to a crime, with the exception of buying this submarine. But until we have evidence, we can’t even prove that. Add to that the fact that we can't track him with any of our missiles' guidance systems, and he becomes a bit of a hard target. Fortunately, we do have someone behind bars who deserves to be.”

“Who would that be?”

“Feferi Peixes. She’s been doing all his dirty work, handling his money and transactions, pulling strings and calling in favors to make sure his file is clean. We have her on literally everything you can think of, with the exception of arson. She keeps saying she’s doing it for a good cause and she doesn’t want anyone to get hurt, but she hasn’t denied a single claim. Essentially she was counting on her royal blood to protect Sollux, and it almost worked. He’s come this far.” The troll sighs.

“If you can get him alive and tell him we have his matesprit, chances are he’ll give up,” Says John. We’re prepared to reduce Feferi’s sentence significantly if he turns himself in.”

Dave turns to John incredulously. “Who _are_ you?”

“I’m a private consultant, of sorts! Who I work for isn’t your concern right now,” John grins.

This earns an incredulous stare from the Chief. “Egbert. The man asked you a question.”

“Okay, okay. I work for a computer security firm uptown, I was pulled in to help with some of the computer details on this case.” His grin shrinks to a sheepish smile.

“That makes a lot more sense. I have no more questions. Terezi?” Dave turns to his partner.

“Nope!” she says, smiling.

“In that case, I think we’re done here. Thank you all for your time.” The Chief stands and buttons his suit jacket, then strides out of his room.

Rose turns to the room at large and speaks. “John and I were planning on a meal at Delmonico’s, as this might be our last night alive. Would anyone care to join us?”

John frowns. “Honey, don’t you think that’s a bit dramatic?” Rose only squeezes his shoulder and smiles.

Dave raises a hand. “I haven’t eaten a proper meal in two days.”

Terezi grins. “Do they have steak?”

“...It’s a steakhouse, dear.” Rose replies.

“Then yes!”

Kanaya is already standing by the door.


	9. THE DEADLY TUBE or TIDE OF PASSION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow this one is over 5,000 words. If you like it, or even if you don't, I'd sure appreciate it if you left a comment!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, almost done with volume two of BONDSTUCK. What started out as a simple request fill has become a 140+ page epic featuring every main character in Homestuck. Thank to the support of everyone who has read and enjoyed it, especially those who've left kudos or comments! I'll be finishing this story in a timely fashion, and depending on the response I get and if I feel like interest is high enough I do have a couple plans for a third volume. Thanks again and I hope you enjoy BONDSTUCK!

“It’s like _Ghostbusters_! But instead of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, it’s a guy with a sub and some missiles. But same principle!” says John. He’s trying to mime a submarine, despite obviously having no idea that submarines don’t typically have steering wheels.

“Or the ninety-eight version of _Godzilla_.” says Dave, exiting through the office building’s huge glass doors. The five are on their way to a tube station to take them downtown towards the restaurant. The issue of how Rose had managed to get a reservation at one of the most exclusive steakhouses in the country crosses Dave’s mind, but he decides it would be tactless to ask.

“Ooh, the one with Matthew Broderick?” John’s huge blue eyes widen.

Dave sighs in response.

“Or _Armageddon_ , too! Oh, man, that’s one of my favorites! Or, uh, _The Day After Tomorrow_ , or _Independence Day_ \--”

“I get it, New York is fucked,” interjects Dave, earning a tight-lipped frown from Rose and a grin from Terezi. “And it’s up to us to save it. Which we will, so don’t go into debt tonight over your porterhouse.”

“Agent Strider, I’d appreciate it if you would take these circumstances a little more seriously,” says Rose stringently, her hair shining in Kanaya’s luminescence. “A lot of people are in very real danger.”

“You were saying, John?” replies Dave, pretending to ignore the blonde woman completely.

“ _Independence Day_ was so good! Or the two-thousand-five _War Of The Worlds_. Or _Watchmen--”_

 _“Watchmen_ wasn’t bad,” concedes Strider, “But the best movie of all time where New York gets destroyed is obvious.”

“ _Deep Impact_?”

“No, you utter ponce, _Escape From New York_! Come on, Kurt Russell? With the eyepatch?” Dave laughs. In a moment, John is laughing too, and it’s infectious. The whole group is still chuckling as they descend the stairway down to the tube.

It’s a moment before anyone realizes that the tunnel is completely silent, and as their laughter dies a more sinister chuckle echoes through the dark grey chamber. 

“Dave motherfuckin’ Strider. I’m glad you brought your friends. More blood for my blade, wicked brother of mine.” Gamzee Makara steps out of the shadows, his tall frame looming over the group and casting shadows in every direction. His words are barely a whisper.

“Where did you learn my middle name?” replies Strider, thinking the better of drawing his handgun just yet. Who knows where Nitram could be at this juncture? He scans the area for a glint of shiny metallic legs. He’s slightly relieved to see Terezi subtly sniffing around-- unburdened by the need to be facing what she’s “looking” at, she’s more likely to find someone hidden in the dark than he. For that matter, Dave wonders why so few lights are on in the station.

Gamzee freezes in response to Dave’s quip, then chuckles again. A wide grin spreads, revealing rows of blackened and rotting fangs. Suddenly his low chuckles become a maniac cackle and his lidded eyes fly open as he screams, “ _HA HA_ , STRIDER! TOO FUCKING RIGHT, MY MAN! IT’S ALL A MOTHER _FUCKING_ JOKE, ISN’T IT?” then quietly again, “I’m so glad you’re all up and understanding this wicked set of motherfucking circumstances. Life? Death? WHAT DOES ANY OF IT FUCKING MEAN?” The lanky troll begins to advance, pulling a pair of blades out of his belt. As he walks through a spot of light, Dave sees they’re blade-knuckled trench spikes-- one hit from any end of those things and the victim is _not_ getting up.

Dave remembers what Terezi had said about his PPK not being able to inflict any real damage on the highblooded troll, so he reflexively goes for the next best thing. Hoping against hope the Legislacerators didn’t make a mistake hooking up his captchalouge system through their powerful servers, he sends up a request for his saber. As the long curved blade appears in his hand, John yells at him. “You’re using Captcha, right? Get me one of those!”

“Are you mental? This isn’t _Lord Of The Rings_ , I’ve been fencing for years!”

“Me too! I was the club captain at Caltech!” John shouts back. 

Dave grudgingly sends up another request, even as the troll draws closer. “Saber?”

“Epee, but I can use a saber,” replies John, catching the blade Dave tosses him.

“Epee? Would you like a side of _dicks_ with that?” Dave brandishes his blade at their half-crazed opponent, who doesn’t appear to be paying any attention to the proceedings.

“I’m not a homosexual! I just like straight swords, that’s all!”

“Not helping your case, dude,” yells Strider, as he engages Makara. His saber flashes like lightning at the troll’s throat, but it bounces off his knuckles-- he’s countering Dave’s strikes with _punches_. The agent leaps back to dodge a flurry of blows from the troll, who’s grinning now. 

Spittle from his mouth smears his corpse paint and runs down his chin. He straightens out a spatulate gray hand, allowing the cruel weapon in it to slide to his fingertips, spins it around a couple times, and with a clever twist of his fingers adopts an underhand grip. “I HEARD ABOUT MOTHERFUCKING VANTAS, you motherfucker. I used to just want to kill you for fun. NOW I WANT TO KILL YOU FOR REVENGE!” he cries.

Dave’s sword is a blur. He grits his teeth, using every ounce of his speed and skill to beat back the flashing knives. How can someone so strong be so fucking _fast?_ Gamzee’s knife slashes his cheek, and without even realizing it his head whips back from the force of a blow to his sternum. His skull cracks against a pillar, and explosions behind his eyeballs occupy the totality of his senses as all sound drops to a low register. His face feels wet, and warm. A dark blur in front of him grows bigger, and a rumble like laughing? Are those… Are those _words?_ He listens as hard as he can.

“...on, Strider! Get up!”

What?

It’s Terezi. “Get up, Dave! Dave Strider, come on! Get up!”

So he gets up. Or at least he tries to, because as the world dials back into focus, Makara is right above him, reeling back for a death blow. The blades come down. Dave closes his eyes unconsciously. 

Nothing happens.

“I don’t think so, Bozo. Let’s fuckin’ do this,” says John Egbert, his blade blocking both of Gamzee’s knives from striking Strider. Dave blinks.

Gamzee turns his head a full ninety degrees to face Egbert. “Well, Strider. Guess miracles are real after all. SEE THAT? MOTHERFUCKING MIRACLES, ALL UP AND SHOCKING YOUR MOTHERFUCKING LOOKSTUBS! Mirthful messiahs be looking out for you. But they’re lookin’ out for me, too.” Lunging at John, he begins to assault Egbert with a series of staggeringly powerful blows that John can barely block or evade. 

“What the hell kind of lunatic _are_ you?” Dave mumbles, rising shakily to his feet. He brings his fingers to his right cheek. They return stained crimson.

“Dave, you’ve seen _episode one_ , right?” yells John, ducking a haymaker.

“We’re not seriously still talking about horrible movies, are we?” Dave yells back.

“The fight scene with Darth Maul! Two against one?”

“Which one of us is Liam Neeson?! I don’t really feel like getting killed any _more_ tonight!” Dave calls, assuming a fighting position to the troll’s right. John is already on his left. 

John takes an experimental swipe at the troll, who rebuffs it with a jab. Dave lunges at the chance, only to have his attack blocked with equal ease, despite the troll not even looking at him. Both fencers fall back to a safe distance.

Gamzee cocks his head to the side. “Ah. The main motherfucking act is about to begin.” He removes his trench spikes, holsters them back in his belt, and with a practiced motion he jumps up and out of sight. 

John looks at Dave. “What was--”

Dave looks back. “Thanks. You saved my life. Sorry I called you gay,”

John frowns. “The word gay shouldn’t be an insult, bro! Everyone should be free to make their own life choices! Oh, and _Episode One_ was awesome, deal with it.”

Dave doesn’t offer a rejoinder. A low rumbling draws his attention from the south tunnel of the station, and it’s growing louder. Terezi is visibly flipping the fuck out.

“Everyone get to the far wall!” she shouts, facing the tunnel. 

“What is it?” calls Dave, grabbing John by the arm and running towards the remaining two women. Rose has attached herself to Kanaya, who is looking just a bit uncomfortable with the arrangement. 

“I think I found Nitram,” says Terezi. Dozens of animals of every description burst into the scattered light of the station from the dark of the train tunnel. Strider can discern the patterns and shapes of myriad predators-- big cats, wolves, a bear. What the hell is going on here? 

As the last of the animals enters the station, Dave can make out a pair of metallic legs, then the rest of Tavros Nitram comes into view riding on the back of an enormous lion. A shape descends from the ceiling and lands on the rim overlooking the tracks, then unfolds into Gamzee, who regards Tavros with a upwards jerk of his shaggy head.

“What’s up, marvelous fuckin’ matesprit o’ mine?” He asks.

“The thing with the zoo, uh, went pretty well, all things, uhh, considered,” Tavros replies in an unsteady manner, “And I’m riding on, um, I mean, on top of, a real lion, which is, uhhh, pretty amazing, honestly.” 

“Motherfuckin’ miracles.” Gamzee turns around to face Strider. “You know, bro, I’ve been thinking about you. I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT YOU A FUCKIN’ LOT. You might have even noticed.”

“What the hell are you on about, Makara?” Dave spits.

“I been doing some subjugglating. LIVING UP TO THE MOTHERFUCKIN’ NAME, MY WICKED FUCKIN’ BROTHER. Been in your _dreams_ ,” Gamzee’s mouth widens, crooked and yellowed teeth sticking out. “They been real fuckin’ unpleasant lately, huh?”

“You? A Subjugglator?” says Dave disbelievingly. He turns to Terezi. “Why didn’t you tell me Makara was a fucking _Subjugglator_?”

“I… I didn’t think his powers would affect you! I didn’t know they could hurt humans!” Terezi says, voice quivering. 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” roars Gamzee. “Now then. You did wicked uncool things to my best palepal Vantas. Fucked his shit up good, and left him in the desert. _Me no gusta, amigo._ Now you gotta motherfucking die.”

Tavros startles. “Uhh, woah Gamzee, You didn’t say anything about, uhh, culling the Dave Human, man, this was not--”

“We’re not just gonna cull Strider, my most flushed brother. WE’RE GONNA SEND ALL THREE OF THESE PINK-ASS MOTHERFUCKERS STRAIGHT TO THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS. The dark carnival fuckin’ beckons. Now give me some o’ that peanut butter.” 

Tavros nervously leans down from his mount and kisses Gamzee, then rears the lion and turns to face the crowd of humans and trolls. “If my matesprit says I have to cull you, sorry, but I’ve got no choice,” he says. He casts out an arm and a dozen crazed animals leap forth.

“What are we gonna do?” Shouts John, gripping his saber tightly. “We can’t kill them! What else you got in your captcha?”

“Nothing but some guns!” Dave shouts. “Pyrope! Stun grenades, tazers, anything! Knock some of these fucking things out! Kanaya! Get to Tavros, take out the source! John! You and I are going after Gamzee!” 

“What about me?” asks Rose. 

“Help whoever needs helping and don’t get hurt!” calls Dave, already running towards the lanky troll, sword in hand. John follows close behind.

The tube station erupts in sound and motion. John and Dave dodge past a pair of wolves towards the train track to intercept the insane clown as the sound of a chainsaw roaring to life meshes with the din of a brown bear growling in anger. Tavros sits astride his lion mount, fingers to temples like a TV psychic, grinning. Gamzee’s drawn his trench spikes again, whirling them around his fingers. 

Dave strikes first, a whippet-fast slash at the troll’s neck, no longer concerned with his adversary’s survival. He knows if he doesn’t fight like this is life or death he’s guaranteed to get killed, and four others my lose their lives as well-- not to mention the fate of the world may be riding on his shoulders come noon tomorrow. He slashes again and again, keeping up with Gamzee’s blocks and counters, predicting his movements and finding openings to draw dusk-colored blood from his opponent’s torso and arms. He brings the blade down on the crown of Gamzee’s shaggy head, forcing the troll to bring a knifed hand up to block it, then twisting the blade through the air he whips the razor-sharp tip in a spiraling figure-S, slashing the troll’s face. Gamzee staggers and punches furiously at Dave but indigo blood is in his eyes and he can’t see. 

His rage fuels blows stronger than any Strider’s felt yet and he catches a lacerating blow from the sharp knuckles of the weapon on his shoulder, cold brass stabbing into his flesh. For a second it’s just icy pressure but when the Subjugglator pulls the spikes out the woulds bleed freely and burn with pain, and he follows the blow with slashes at Dave’s face with his other fist. Dave falls back in time to suffer only a graze on the right cheek, but it still hurts like hell and knocks him to his ass.

Suddenly John is there at the troll’s back, pommel of his blade raised above the troll’s bleeding scalp. He brings the steel down as hard as he can, and the _thump_ of the blow resounds throughout the chamber, but Gamzee is barely fazed. He reaches up and grabs John’s sword hand completely in his, and _squeezes_ \-- John cries out in pain as a crunching sound issues from his hand and he goes limp. As if as an afterthought, he easily tosses John into a pillar, ten feet from the agent. The man doesn’t stir.

“Maraka-- you bastard--” spits Dave, trying to stand. He can barely hold on to his sword, let along continue to fight. This might be it. It only remains to take the troll out with him. But _how?_

“You fucked with the wrong motherfucker, motherfucker. When you see the Mirthful Messiahs, tell ‘em I’ll be seein’ ‘em soon,” Gamzee says, sounding eerily calm and raising the cruel blades. 

“Imminently, in fact,’ comes a new voice from the side. Gamzee barely turns to see who it is before, with a sickening, squelching _crunch_ his eyes go as wide as nutrition plateaus-- Rose Lalonde has her right foot buried about six inches into Gamzee’s shame globes. She brings down her leg, plants it, and delivers a punch to the troll’s bloody face that sends him flying down onto the tracks as well. She walks to the edge to check whether the troll is unconscious, nods once, and turns back. Offering Dave a hand, she smiles and quips, “Well now. Seems in the course of someone’s stygian crusade they’ve forgotten the order of the day was… Oh, what was it, now? ‘Don’t get hurt’ or something like that?”

“Let me guess, you’re a computer person too?” replies Dave, allowing the woman to help him to his feet.

“Far from it. I’m just a simple psychologist,” she replies, straightening out her hair with manicured fingers. “But when one is on call for an organization such as _hers,”_ a nod at Terezi, who is currently duking it out with a bear several times her size and _grinning_ , “one takes precautions. What about John? Where is he, anyway?”

“Over there,” says Dave, nodding towards the man-- his arms simply won’t respond to his brain. “Better hurry.”

A look of absolute horror overtakes Rose’s usually stoic expression. “Oh no,” she whispers, running towards her husband. “Please get up, John. Please get up.” She kneels by him as Dave limps over and bends to take his pulse.

Suddenly he rolls over and jumps to his feet. “Surprise!” he yells, grinning. “I’m fine! Well, except my hand, I think it’s broken.” He holds the hand up, a purple mass of bruises.

Rose exhales, exasperated, and frowns. Dave simply glares through his shades.

The three turn to see female trolls’ progress. Terezi is using her cane, split into three sections like the prototypical Shaolin weapon, to great effect in beating the everloving shit out of what looks like a pack of hyenas. On the other side of the tube, the glowing figure of Kanaya is running full-tilt at Tavros’ lion steed, holding a chainsaw low and ready, and with a mighty leap crosses the distance in seconds flat. Tavros jumps off the lion to get away, landing in a heap on the floor, and scrabbles to get to his metal feet, but before he can right himself, Kanaya thrusts the whirling teeth of the chainsaw an inch from him throat. 

“Tell your friends to take a nap,” she says, meeting his eyes. Tavros taps his temple weakly and all the animals in the station go limp at once. “Good. Now be good and I’ll make sure you and _him_ end up in the same cell.”

“I’m, I’m, I’m so sorry, Kanaya, I don’t know, I don’t know why I did it, I just love him so much and I, I always want to do what he says, and I want him to be happy--”

“Shhhh, it’s OK. I understand. Being flushed for a psychic dominant can be hard, I know. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you anymore. Come here,” And she reaches down and scoops up the boy, suddenly so young-looking, dropping the inert chainsaw. “Shhhh.”

Memories of the night with Kanaya come flooding back to Dave. The feeling of serenity when he looked into her jade-green eyes, feeling like nothing in the world could hurt him. The weak-willed troll quickly succumbs to the same effect as she rubs her glowing cheeck against his.

Terezi walks up to Dave. “Agent Strider... I’m sorry. If I’d have known-- if you’d had told me-- about the dreams, I could have done something.”

“They weren’t about you. One was about Neophyte Redglade, the Legislacerator I read about in a Troll History class I took at university.”

“And?” Terezi looks interested.

“And her dragon dad blew up my pirate ship and killed me with a massive fireball. It was pretty cool, actually,” Dave smiles slightly, to let the petite troll know he’s unaffected. “But I don’t want to get too far into it or Doc Lalonde here will start psychoanalyzing my dreams. I’m not about to have my every subconscious thought parsed for phallic symbolism, I could do that myself for free.”

Rose smirks. “I save your life and you’re already belittling me in public? I’d say this flagrant display of ASPD displays a fundamental personality flaw, Mr. Strider.”

“How much will that be? Hang on a tick, let me just get out my pocket book. Also, I could have taken him, no problem.” Strider is grinning now, and he’s pleased to see Rose is smiling too. 

Kanaya returns with Tavros passed out under one arm, and Terezi manages to drag Gamzee up off of the tracks. Taking quick stock of the station, they collect and recaptchalouge their weapons and Terezi secures the trolls to a pillar. She then makes a quick call to HQ, suggesting an extremely judicious selection of law enforcement officials to handle the aftermath without the press finding out about two trolls and a bunch of dangerous animal escapees from the Central Park Zoo terrorizing citizens. Wearily, the five make their way to the surface, where they do what they should have done all along and hail a fucking cab.

  
  


O+O+O+O+O

 

 

Dave is dreading trying to get into the restaurant looking as he does-- Kanaya, miraculously unharmed, has done a fantastic job of patching up him and John but his blazer is still soaked in blood and the programmer’s bandaged hand more than slightly resembles a Q-tip. When the crowd arrives, Rose steps up to the maitre d’ stand and fixes the thin gentleman with a predatory gaze.

“Egbert, reservation for four. Terribly sorry, but we’ll need a table for five, instead.”

The maitre d’ looks at her like she’d just sacrificed a goat on his doorstep. “I’m terribly sorry, madam, but that simply won’t be possible,” he says, looking down his nose at a notebook on his stand.

“Oh, I think it will.” She turns to John and says, “Be a dear and go pick out a table for us? Thanks.” 

The man grips his stand angrily. “Now, see here, madam--” but he’s cut off as Rose turns around again.

“Oh Kanaya? Could you ask this gentleman to give us a table for five, please? I see an empty one right over there.”

Kanaya reluctantly shuffles to the stand and glances at Rose. Rose nods at her solidly. She turns back to the maitre d’ and, frowning apologetically, slowly intones “ _I really need a table for five for my friends. Isn’t there anything you can do?_ ”

The maitre d’ blinks twice, then begins to walk into the dining room. “Right this way, please.”

Dave reflects that having friends who are also vampires can come in handy.

Once they’re seated at the round table, they’re quickly fixed with menus, wine lists, and small baskets of fresh bread. Dave has chosen a seat between Terezi and Kanaya, who is beside Rose and then John, who gives Terezi a nervous glance every few seconds, as though he’s afraid she’ll mistake him for an appetizer. Based on her expression, it’s a distinct possibility. 

Dave orders a simple vodka martini, and quickly orders the rest of the table cocktails before any complaints are lodged. As the drinks are brought out, John almost fumbles his glass receiving his La Paloma with his left hand. Rose glowers appraisingly at her Hibiscus with eyes of nearly the same lilac shade, Terezi grins at the Bloody Mary she thinks contains no alcohol-- Dave “forgot” to order it virgin-- and Kanaya gazes slightly worriedly at her White Russian, not seeming to know what to do with the creamy drink. Dave hoists his martini glass and, deciding that leaving the toast for democracy to decide could cause another disaster like this country, proclaims “To justice.”

“To justice!” sound four voices in unison, and five glasses are drained.

John smiles broadly. “Tequila? How did you know?!” he says, looking at the waiter and tapping the rim of his glass to signal another.

“You mentioned Caltech. Not a very difficult leap. Now don’t get too soused before we order.”

“Agent Strider, as much as I’d love to be offended you probably ordered me a champagne cocktail simply because I posses a pair of ovaries, I must say-- I’m rather satisfied with your selection,” Rose says, placing her empty goblet in the exact middle of the coaster.

“Please. I didn’t order you a champagne cocktail simply because you’re a woman. It could have been any pink drink.”

Kanaya simply smiles in delight as she stirs the ice in her glass and drinks the last bit of her vodka, Kahlua, and cream. Terezi, on the other hand, is gripping the table firmly, staring directly at the glass of reddish ice cubes before her. 

“Dave Strider! There was something _different_ about this drink! What was it?”

Dave makes a show of smacking his forehead. “Oh no, Terezi! I must have forgotten to order your Bloody Mary without _alcohol_!”

“Alcohol? _This_ is _alcohol?_ ” she says, her unblinking gaze still fixed on the perspiring glass. 

“I’m terribly sorry. If you’re feeling dizzy or something, I’m sure it’ll pass when you get something solid in your nutrition satchel. I won’t tell your office if you don’t.”

Not turning her head in the slightest, Terezi whips out a clawed hand and grabs a waiter passing by her by his necktie.

“Food-serving human! How many of your drinks contain alcohol?”

The waiter, looks terrified.“...All  of them ma’am,” he shakily responds.

Terezi seems to consider that for a second. “Okay, which one has the most alcohol in it?”

The poor waiter replies “I think that would be the A.M.F.”

“A.M.F.? What does that stand for? Answer quickly!”

Lowering his voice, the man says, “Uh, ‘adios motherfucker’. It’s basically like a Long Island Iced Tea--”

“Dave will purchase me three of them. Hurry up!” And she releases the man’s tie with a dismissive gesture, never once breaking off her glare at her glass. The rest of the table is having difficulty not laughing.

  
  


  
  


O+O+O+O+O

 

When it’s finally time to order their meals, not a lot of thought is required. When in Rome, as they say, do as the Romans do; when in New York, eat a big-ass steak. As platters of unnecessarily large cuts of the country’s finest beef are brought to the table one by one, plated with various preparations of potatoes and greens for the humans and a more suitable sort of pickled slaw for the trolls, the table resembles nothing more than one of Dave’s fantasies from his agent-training days, hiding from his trainers in a forest and eating insects to survive. The wine flows and the conversation is light, as though no one really wants to face the reality of the upcoming day, not even the eternally grim Rose-- on the contrary, with a bit of booze in her system she’s actually a lot of fun. Out of the corner of his eye, Dave even notices her place a surreptitious hand on Kanaya’s thigh once or twice. He has to stifle a chuckle at the Russian troll’s expression, a sort of mix of surprise and self-satisfaction but with fangs. 

What must be Terezi’s first experience with alcohol proves to double as the evening’s entertainment. As the slight woman gets drunker and drunker her behavior becomes more and more erratic. After A.M.F number one, she attempts to order her bone-in ribeye ‘Completely raw! Rawer than raw! Bring that son-of-a-bitch back to life and let _me_ kill it!’. After A.M.F. number two, she suddenly decides that John as a whole is ‘Super delicious!’ and if she hadn’t been restrained she’d have probably eschewed the steak and eaten his only remaining good hand instead. Kanaya intervenes before she can start on A.M.F number 3, and sure enough, by halfway through her steak she’s just fine, albeit pretty embarrassed. 

Dave eats his T-bone with relish, enjoying each bite almost as much as the warm atmosphere of the table. For one meal in his life, he decides, he can let his cool facade slip a bit and simply enjoy being around people. He and John pick up their argument about awful movies in between sips of red wine, and Terezi buts in now and then to comment on which actors and actresses she particularly likes. She proclaims a particular fondness for Bruce Willis when Dave mentions _Die Hard With A Vengeance_ , but admits she’d settle for Samuel L. Jackson in a pinch. 

Rose and Kanaya are happily chatting about _something_ , but with all their banter and psycho-babble all Strider can really conclude is they’re comparing the psychological aspects of Human romance to that of Trolls. It doesn’t occur to him until later that what they’re actually doing is _negotiating_. Rose nods slightly towards an oblivious John with a slight smile, to which Kanaya seems to consider for a second, then nods herself. Rose squeezes her white hand with a mischievous grin.

As progress on their meals grinds to a halt-- only the trolls could finish their steaks and even then they couldn’t finish their sides-- cheerful voices are replaced with contented sighs. As Terezi hands the waiter her Legislacerators’ expense account card without even looking at the bill, the rest of the table breathes a sigh of relief. 

Once outside, Rose fixes the agent and the Legislacerator in her violet gaze. “It’s time for us to part ways, but It would be remiss of me not to thank you both for such a lovely and memorable evening. I can honestly say I can’t remember having more fun in years.”

“Well you’re certainly welcome, but give John some credit!” replies Dave.

“Oh, don’t worry yourself about that… I certainly plan to,” she says, narrowing her pale eyebrows and taking John’s good hand in hers, giving it a warm squeeze. Then taking Kanaya’s in the other, she begins to walk towards her cab.

“...Lucky bastard,” Dave says under his breath. Suddenly realizing through his dulled senses Terezi’s standing right besides him, he quickly says “Er, that is…”

But Terezi only smiles. “Agent Dave Strider. You tried to get me drunk.”

“Er… Yeah, little bit. No hard feelings?” he says, scratching the back of his head, cheeks beginning to flush slightly. From the booze, definitely not from anything else. Definitely.

“Quite the opposite,” she replies, and rising to her tiptoes she kisses him. 

The kiss is chaste, businesslike, almost more of a gesture than anything, but coming from Terezi it means a lot. Dave places his hands on the small woman’s shoulders and kisses her back, being careful not to take things too far. After a moment, she breaks away. 

“I… Agent Strider, I’m--” she begins, face a pale shade of teal.

“Dave, please,” says the agent, fixing his shades.

“Dave… Did you ever look up rule number four?”

“I’m afraid in all the confusion of the last few days I did not, but I did wonder about it. Do I finally get to find out?”

Terezi looks disappointed. “…I had a wonderful time tonight, but we should really rest up. We _are_ going to save the world tomorrow, after all.”


	10. THE NATURE OF EVIL or OUT OF DANGER?

“So this is it, huh?” asks Dave, glaring at the small vessel. It’s about the size of a Mini Cooper, shaped like a leech, and painted a familiar shade of battleship gray. It’s secured to an abandoned-looking pier that the Legislacerators saw fit to utilize after a quick inspection of records indicated no one had been there in more than five years. Wearing an odd pair of wetsuits complete with flexible hoods, he and Terezi are eyeing the underwater vehicle with unease, despite John’s affirmations. “The pictures made it look… _Bigger_.” 

Beside Dave, Terezi looks slightly uneasy, an expression she doesn’t often display. “Yeah, I thought it would be bigger too,” she says, frowning. “And you say the floor will come off on its own?”

“That’s right! Blasting caps,” says John, grinning. “You’ll have to have your masks on by the time you’re approaching Captor’s sub. It’ll flood pretty fast, but you’ll be strapped in, so there’s no danger of you guys falling out or whatever!” He gives a thumbs-up.

“What about the danger of the water pressure grinding our bones into dust?” asks Dave dryly.

“Ah! We thought of that, and planned accordingly. What you’re wearing right now are no ordinary wetsuits! These were developed by the Navy in cooperation with some of the brightest seatroll scientists. Real SEALs stuff! They’re scaled, see, and sensors woven throughout the suit stiffen the scales to match the water pressure! No matter how deep you get, it’ll just feel like a swimming pool. At least, that’s what the Navy said,” says John with a wink. 

“Well that’s cool, let’s hope it works,” replies Dave, pulling a scale away from his chest and watching a network of linked scales stretch away with it. 

“One more thing. As I’m sure you know, this type of submarine typically has two hulls, right? To keep the pressure consistent throughout the vessel and so on. Well, when you guys drill through the two hulls, The Remora is only going to replace one. The difference in pressures caused by a huge hole in the inner hull could cause damage to the sub. That’s why we’re giving you this.” John holds up his Droid phone, already displaying a schematic of what looks a lot like a roll of wrapping paper.

“Wait, _two_ hulls? Since when--” begins Terezi, but Dave executes a flawless nose- _pap_ and shuts her right up. She glares at him but doesn’t say anything.

“Please, continue,” he says calmly, giving John a ‘carry on’ gesture.

“More Navy SEALs stuff. You’re really hitting the jackpot today, haha! Basically it’s like aluminum foil-- oh, sorry, al-oo-MIN-ee-um foil-- that you stick onto the hole you leave behind, right? But then you hit the button on this cool little box, it sends a charge through a network of flexible circuits inside the sheet, and _bam_! Hard as inch-thick steel.” John gives Dave a prize-winning grin.

“Fantastic,” replies Dave. “So between our sub and this foil, we’re replacing both hulls we put a hole in. I like this plan.”

Dave and John shake hands. John wishes them the best of luck, which Dave returns, but Terezi only smiles slyly. With a little sniff, she smirks at him and says “You’d know a thing about luck, now, wouldn’t you? A thing or _two_ , even?”

As John blushes furiously and fumbles for words, the pair climbs aboard the small sub through the hatch in the top, then Terezi clanks the cover closed and secures it. Once inside, there’s really not much room to move around. They settle into the seats and strap on their five-point harnesses, and Dave begins the ignition sequence. Almost the entire process is computer-controlled, which is good, because Dave’s never set foot in a submarine and has never planned to; he wouldn’t have the foggiest clue what to do if it were up to him to operate the damn thing. Frankly, in his opinion, the less time spent gallivanting underwater inside a tin, the better.

Strider glances at the instrument panel. A range of high-tech arrays blink and glow at him, providing him with information on everything from cabin pressure to latitude and longitude. Since Sollux’s submarine is virtually undetectable by satellite, the US Navy has thrown truly unfathomable amounts of money into a plan involving triangulating its position using radio boats and speedy frigates, counting on the troll not wanting to attack them and blow his cover. It’s a dangerous line between simply detecting him and getting close enough to startle him into launching a missile from the middle of the Atlantic, but they have very few options. This morning at about nine o’clock, the first of the checkpoints broadcasted a notification that he’d passed through their AOR one hour prior-- being sure to allow enough distance that he wouldn’t notice a spike in radio activity and realize he’d been detected-- and when the second notification came through from a checkpoint slightly to the north of a line exactly connecting the Rock of Gibraltar and Manhattan, Dave and Terezi had their intercept point. Upon powering the Remora up, it immediately begins to head toward the point designated. 

Minutes pass uneasily. Dave has tried to push the events of last night to the back of his head, but something about the deep, dark water and being alone with Terezi is making it difficult to remain his usual stolid self. “Terezi. Last night--”

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” she interrupts, absently poking at an instrument on the panel.

“Well I _do_ want to talk about it. We’ve done a very good job of maintaining a professional relationship on this job, and--”

“Dammit, Dave, forget it ever happened. I was way out of line, and I could lose my job over something like that!” Pyrope says frustratedly.

“...If that’s what you want, fine. But I really enjoyed it, and I really enjoy being your partner. So if you’re not being truthful right now, just know the door’s open, in the future.”

Terezi considers this for a second then nods once and goes back to poking at instruments. “‘K. We’ll talk more about this later. But don’t let it affect anything today, and _definitely_ don’t tell the Spiderbitch.”

Dave smiles. 

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

Strider is startled to attention by a chirping from the instrument panel. One of the screens is displaying a proximity alert and another is announcing they’ve “arrived at rendezvous point”. Dave looks up from the panel to see the sub’s reinforced-glass windows bisected between the dark blue of the water and the dark gray of a huge vessel. The Remora is already steering itself over to the larger submarine and rolling on axis. An alarm sounds, warning the agents to don their masks and get ready for the sub’s floor to break away. Dave grips his harness, reflecting how much he’d rather be jumping out of an airplane right now. At least if something went wrong death would be quick and painless.

The blasting caps go off with surprisingly little noise, and a wall of water rushes into the half-rugby-ball-shaped minisub. The only sensation Dave gets is that of cold-- he doesn’t feel wet and he certainly doesn’t feel crushed to death. In a normal wetsuit, the oxygen in his joints would be expanding exponentially, causing him incredible pain followed quickly by death from the change in pressure, but the seatrolls’ suits have somehow curbed that reaction completely. They must have cost a fortune, he reflects.

He gives Terezi a thumbs-up, which she returns, and they white-knuckle their harnesses, suspended sideways, waiting for the Remora to attach. With a jarring _clank_ , the curved edges of their shell-shaped vessel attach to the large sub by strong magnets within a loop of gel-like material that creates a watertight seal. Dave looks through the murky water at the new wall of the cabin-- the smooth metal plates of the large sub’s outer hull. Once this is done, another screen on the instrument panel glows hazily and the water begins to pump out of the cabin. In a minute or two, not a drop is left. 

Removing his hood experimentally, Dave reaches under his seat to where the acetylene torches are stored. Rose had informed him they’d given the vehicle larger-than-necessary oxygen tanks to allow the hungry torches to burn without suffocating the agents. Nonetheless, Dave still plans to breathe through his suit’s oxygen regulator, and he quickly advises Terezi to do the same.

The small troll is already setting up her torch, and with a nod from Dave, she sparks the tool to life, smiling wickedly at its jet of blue flame. Not wanting to waste a second, she guides the flame down to the hull of the sub and begins to drill.

The going isn’t slow, but it certainly isn’t fast. Dave’s nerves don’t fail him, though, and with a steady hand he cuts through his half of the circle in time to meet up with Terezi’s half at the bottom. The hull panel they’ve cut away separates from the rest of the iron around it, and with a great heave they push it into the gap between that hull and the next, where it slots in place and stays relatively put. Nodding again at each other, they start on the inner hull.

Dave tries not to think about how if John were here he’d be drawing comparisons to _Episode I_ left and right as he and Terezi burn through the inner hull. They’ve cut the sheet of metal at such an angle that it falls inwards, whereupon they then slot it between the two hulls on the opposite side of the hole from the first large iron disc. Looking and sniffing, respectively, for signs of danger, the two agents dash through the hole. Strider begins to unroll the foil, lining up a two-meter square to completely cover the hole they carved, as Pyrope stows the torches back in the Remora. Ducking back through, she nods at Dave, who finishes the seal and attaches the small black box on one corner, then presses the button on it. Immediately all wrinkles and creases smooth out as the foil melts into a continuous plane with a shimmer, then ceases any motion. It’s obviously a foreign material from the rest of the bulkhead due to its reflectiveness, but with a bit of paint it would be indistinguishable. Dave gives it an experimental knock. It delivers a solid _thump_ , not the papery cymbal crash he had been expecting. 

“This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” he tells Terezi, grinning.

“Fuck you, I’m blind,” she grins back.

“Yeah yeah. Come on, let’s find this bastard.”

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

  
  


Navigating the submarine is no easy task, and for some reason no one thought it necessary or prudent to fix the agents with any kind of map or blueprint. He follows Terezi, who’s tracking traces of scents like a bloodhound, and hopes she’s not just going to lead him to the mess hall. According to the Legislacerator, they’re running a skeleton of a skeleton crew; there’s no more than a few trolls on board. Dave assumes that like their minisub, Sollux probably has this vessel running almost completely on computer controls-- a bit of studying and he’d be able to write programs that would make most submarine ratings redundant. In light of this, they decide heading directly to the bridge would be the smart choice. They shed their scalesuits, leaving them in neoprene-and-carbon-fiber bodysuits that provide a decent amount of knee and elbow protection, with a few kevlar plates around the torso. Dave’s is black, of course, but Terezi’s somehow managed to get a teal-and-red one complete with a Libra emblem on the breast.

Fully aware Captcha is not going to do much good this deep into the ocean, Dave has brought several spare handgun magazines, but he still feels slightly uneasy without the arsenal he’s used to at his fingertips. He’s got a diving knife strapped to his leg and another at the small of his back, but his main weapon is his PPK snug in his armpit holster. He reaches for it to measure the resistance of the flexible suit, getting a feel for his draw. His fingers are still cold so he breathes on them a couple times to warm them up. Terezi has her cane, of course, so there’s that. As they approach the heavy hatch to the bridge, Terezi tugs Dave’s sleeve.

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to talk about it later. I want to talk about it now.”

“ _Now_ , Terezi?” Dave turns to face her.

“Yes. Right now. I decided-- I won’t regret it or take it back. I made my mind up, that this is how I want to spend my future. I’ve looked at every angle, and this is how I want to live my life.” And rising to her toes again, just like last night, she kisses him again. It’s different though-- whereas last night was experimental, unsure, almost _tenuous_ , the way she’s kissing him now is none of those things. This is the Terezi he knows, the Terezi he can’t deny his affection for. Bold, powerful, assured. She leaves nothing to chance.

He kisses her back, and allows himself to be pushed against the bulkhead as she presses her slight frame into him. She squeezes his back, breathes on his neck, nips at his jaw. He can barely keep up with her.

But as quickly as it started it’s over. She ducks back, adjusts her glasses, and exhales shakily. “More later.” And she turns back towards the hatch, as though nothing had even happened.

Dave catches his breath and follows her, trying hard to keep his eyes off her ass.

Terezi and Dave take their positions beside the hatch and listen. From inside comes a tumultuous sound of buzzing and trolls arguing in Alternian. Terezi listens for a second, then signs to Dave to stay put. Footfalls indicate someone is heading their way. Pressed flat to either side of the hatch, the agents allow the troll-- not Sollux but another one-- to get a few steps past them before Dave closes the hatch and Terezi whips forward and in the blink of an eye has the troll around the neck with her diving knife at his throat. She leads him around a corner, and Dave hears whispers in Alternian and then a _thump_ and the sound of a limp body falling to the floor. 

She comes back around the corner, a bit of maroon blood on her suit but no worse for wear. She jerks her head towards the bridge and mouths the words “ _Sollux alone_ ”.  Strider nods and puts a hand on the crank of the hatch, prepared to open it on her go.

“Go!” she shouts, and he wrenches the vault-like door open and pulls with all his strength. She dives into the room and Dave follows as soon as he can.

The bridge is roughly square-shaped, about five meters to a wall, and lined with banks of equipment. Another bank of consoles occupies the middle of the floor. All the the equipment is stacked with more honeycombs-- _apiculture networking,_ Dave recalls-- and purple bees flit lazily through the air. One person is seated inside, facing away from the pair on a chair that looks like it would be more appropriate in an office building.

“Sollux Captor!” shouts Terezi. “By order of The Legislacerators, you’re hereby placed under arrest for conspiracy to commit international terrorism!”

The troll slowly rotates his chair around to face them. He couldn’t look less like an international terrorist; he just looks like some college kid. Dressed in a bulky black hoodie with a yellow Gemini symbol on it and jeans, he could be doing math homework right now. 

“Tho the calvalreaperth have arrived. Took you guyth long enough. Another two hourth and New York would be toathedt.” Bits of yellowy saliva fly from his mouth with each lisped expulsion.

Terezi continues. “I suggest you come along peacefully. We don’t need anyone getting hurt.”

Sollux smirks. “If I leave thith bridge, my thub is gonna launch every thingle one of its mithellth. Twenty thities, gone. Jutht like that.” He snaps his fingers. A few of the bees drop from their flight to the ground.

Dave speaks. “And how many trolls die if you do that? Ten million? More?”

“Don’t underethtimate me, _human_. Fef and I already thtarted evacuating trollth latht week.”

“Captor, when’s the last time you actually talked to Feferi Peixies, face to face? Not over chat?”

Sollux frowns. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Terezi fixes Sollux in her unseeing gaze. “We have Feferi, Captor. She’s safe and sound in a cell below a very secure Legislacerators’ HQ building. Every conversation you’ve had with her in the last week has been documented and analyzed. There’s been no evacuation.”

Sollux looks stymied for about half a second. “You didn’t--”

“We didn’t hurt her, but it’s very nice of you to ask. Now why don’t you just disarm those missiles and surface this oversized ablution trap.”

“Like hell! You think you have me trapped? I’m the one in control here, not you! You douthebagth need _me_ to deactivate thith thing. At thith point the mithileth will go off if you tho much ath _cough_.”

“And millions and millions of trolls with die. Is that what you want? Come to think of it, Dave, which city was Feferi being held in?” asks Terezi.

“Gee, TZ, I don’t remember,” Dave says, playing along with her prompt. “But it was a big one. Definitely one of the world’s twenty biggest, that’s for sure.”

Sollux grits his teeth. “...Ok, you athholeth. Let’th talk.”

Terezi begins. “Plan A goes like this: You deactivate all your weapons, surface the sub, come with us peacefully, and follow all instructions and orders along the way. We release Feferi scot-free, you do a couple easy sweeps in an especially-nice prison and some therapy, and then go about your life. Depending on which countries’ governments get involved with the trial, you might have to leave Earth for a while, rejoin the Fleet for a sweep or two. That’s Plan A.”

“Thitty plan. Don’t like it. What elth you got?” spits the troll.

“Plan B is we knock your ass the fuck out, disable the sub completely, our friends pull it out of the water, Feferi spends the rest of her long, long life in a _not_ -especially-nice prison, and you get the deluxe extended public execution courtesy of the Legislacerators. It won’t be pretty. And plan C is we kill you right here and the US Navy shoots down your missiles when they go off. You might notice there isn’t a plan where you get what you want, so it’s time to adjust your expectations.”

“Yeah, well,” says Sollux, standing up. “That’th the funny thing about planth, ithen’t it? They never theem to go how you envithion them.” From behind his glasses comes a subtle glow.

Dave feels his feet leave the ground a split second before he goes careening through the room, thudding into a console and crumpling to the ground. The kevlar in his suit absorbs much of the impact, but his ribs and shoulder are bruised and sore. “Ugh… not fair, man,” he says.

“What would you know about _fair!?”_ yells Sollux, stalking over to him. Strider’s arms are suddenly held in place by an invisible force as Sollux begins to punch him. He’s not strong, and not very quick, but the injustice of not being able to defend himself hurts more than the troll’s knuckles. 

Terezi vaults over the central bank of machinery in the room and begins to run towards him, but Sollux casts an arm in a downwards sweep and the periscope column slides down, hitting her and knocking her down before she can react to it. Seeing her groaning and rubbing her head, Sollux seems satisfied to turn back to Strider.

“What would… Feferi say… if she could… see you,” Dave manages to mutter, as Sollux batters his face, knocking his glasses off and bruising his eyes.

“Thee would laugh. Thee would fucking laugh at you! Pathetic-ath pink fucking thon of a _bitth_ , you humanth are all _alike_ , thay one thing and do _another_ , always _taking_ and _taking_ and _taking_ and never _giving_ _anything_ _back_!” He emphasizes each word with a weak punch to Dave’s nose, which is bleeding freely now.

“We shared… our planet… with you…”

“Out of _fear!_ Out of _dethperation!_ Only becauthe you knew if you went to war with uth you’d _lose_!” The troll leans back to catch his breath.

“Believe it or not, Captor… There is goodness in human beings. Just like there’s goodness in trolls. You just have to look for it sometimes. We could have blown your ass out of the water at any point today, but we wanted to give you the _chance_ to make the right choice. The _chance_ to do the right thing. For you, and for your matesprit, and your poor dying moirail, and all the other trolls in the world.” Dave focuses his swelling eyes on the troll, imploring, honestly hoping he’ll just give it all up.

“Fuck you! You think I give a thhit about your moralth? I bet you don’t even _have_ Fef, I bet you’re bluffing. Everything you fuckerth thay ith lieth!”

“He’s not… He’s not lying, Sollux. INTERPOL arrested her, then transferred her to our care willingly,” says Terezi, rising shakily to her feet. “The agreement was they get her if you don’t surrender, and we get her if you do. That’s as cut-and-dry as I can make it.”

“You’re clever, Sollux. Way cleverer than me,” interjects Strider. “But there’s only one solution to this problem, and no amount of cleverness can change that. Just disarm the missiles and surface the sub. The game’s over, and you’ve lost.”

Sollux closes his eyes and seems to think hard for a minute. Then he glares at Dave, eyes burning. “No. I either do it according to plan or I’m dead. That’s how it’th got to go. New York first, the rest after that. If we don’t take out the lab, it’s no uthe.”

“What the hell are you _saying_ , Sollux?!” Terezi yells. She’s put the emphasis on the wrong word-- it doesn’t escape Dave’s notice that the implication is on him saying something Terezi doesn’t seem to want to hear, rather than something she can’t believe.

“You of all people know th- thc- _Scratch_ , TZ! He doethn’t give thecond chanceth! If thith doethent go ath planned, and I end up in prithon, how long before I end up a corpthe? His handth are everywhere!”

“Terezi? What is he talking about?” asks Dave, noticing Sollux’s control start to weaken.

“I- I don’t know!” Terezi shouts back. 

“Bullthit, you never even told Thrider about you and--” 

But before he can finish his sentence, Terezi plunges her sword-cane through his chest. Sollux coughs yellow blood onto his sweater and looks imploringly at Dave with watery eyes. 

“Holy shit, Terezi! What the fuck!?” Dave shouts.

Sollux gazes, unfocused, at Dave, bringing a shaking hand up and removing his glasses. He drops them to the floor, where the thin glass shatters. “You’re… Maybe not thuch a bad human,” he whispers, mouth curling into the barest suggestion of a smile. “Thhe… Not thuch a good troll. Karkat knowth.” Then Sollux’s golden eyes close and he ceases to move. 

Terezi slides her blade out of the troll’s thorax with a long _squelch_ and goes about cleaning the blade on a few stray pieces of paper.

Dave just gawks at her. “You killed him!”

“He was hurting you. And he wasn’t going to surrender.”

“What was that about--”

“We’re not going to talk about that now. Come on, let’s get this thing above sea level.”

Dave doesn’t say anything. He desperately wants to freak the fuck out but he keeps himself under control. His head swims with suspicion the entire way to the surface as he patches the communications systems through to the US Navy’s signal range and allows their computer engineers to bring the vessel to the surface. Before long, they’re piping in fresh air. Rather than attempt to get Terezi to admit anything more and risk a conflagration, he decides patience and rationality outweigh instinct when the outcome could be his word against hers as to what happened to Sollux.

As Strider climbs out of the submarine onto the surface and begins to ascend the US Navy ship’s ladder, he squints in the bright sunlight. Shapes dance in his vision and he shakes off the urge to vomit. He smells like blood, his own and Sollux’s, and as a pair of seamen go belowdecks to recover the Captor’s corpse and the other few trolls that made up the crew. Terezi simply stands on the deck, completely unfazed. She doesn’t grin, doesn’t frown, doesn’t display any of the myriad funny faces to which Dave has become so accustomed. This in itself is terrifying, but what really catches Dave’s breath in this chest is when she alights on the deck of the ship and for the first time looks _directly_ at him.

“Well. That sure was an adventure, huh?” she grins.

Dave only nods.

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

  
  


Medals somehow mean less when you don’t have a uniform to put them on, so Special Agent Strider feels just a little awkward as the Legislacerators’ Chief pins a broadly-striped teal-and-red ribbon on the pocket of his crisp black tuxedo as he stands at attention on a stage in the auditorium of the New York HQ building. Terezi is in her most exorbitant red-and-teal alien outfit yet, with a stiff collar and a  system of jackets, skirts and leggings he’s not putting much effort into understanding. It’s a handsome ensemble, and more than a little intimidating, but not something he’d want to be shoehorned into, if the Chief’s is any indication. Pyrope’s ribbon rack is expansive, as Strider had subconsciously expected, and the addition of one more doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, especially given her stern expression. But the only other troll in the room with the same one is the Chief himself, so it must be a pretty high honor.

“Special Agent Dave Strider. I cannot express my gratitude duly in any language, so let me just shake your hand and point you to the bar,” says the Chief, grinning. 

“Honor’s mine, sir. I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” replies Strider, giving the Chief a warm smile. An extremely dignified hug-bump is shared.

“And Terezi Pyrope. I remember when you were just a neophyte. You were breaking records on your very first case! You’ve grown into a fine Legislacerator, and I expected no less. Someday you’re going to have to tell me how you do it!”

“Well you know, Chief, if I told you... I’d have to kill you,” quips Terezi with a sharp grin. They share a hearty laugh. 

The Chief poses briefly with each agent individually and then both together as flashbulbs capture the ceremony for every major paper on the East Coast. With a little pat on the shoulders, he turns to go schmooze with the Mayor of New York-- time to go finagle an increase in budget, assumes Dave. 

Terezi pokes him in the side surreptitiously. “Grab two flutes of champagne and meet me on the roof.” Then she turns and strides out of the room.

Dave waits long enough to erase suspicion, shakes a couple more hands-- both Human and troll-- and then plucks a couple tall glasses of the bubbling golden drink from a tray proffered by a waiter. Heading out the direction from which he saw Terezi leave, he quickly finds his way to the elevator. He rides it to the very top of the office building and climbs the last flight of stairs to the rooftop, then opens the door and walks through. Squinting in the sudden afternoon light, he transfers both flutes to his left hand and reaches into his breast pocket for his shades.

A hand catches his wrist and he almost drops the champagne. “No. Leave them off,” comes a small female voice, accent lightly Spanish. “Your eyes always smell so delicious.”

“So that’s what this is about,” says Dave, offering Terezi a flute, which she quickly accepts. “You just wanted--”

“God, shut up!” says Terezi, downing the drink on one. “You talk too much. Come over here and kiss me.” She steps out from the side of the doorway where she’d been hiding. She’s loosened the collar of her service dress uniform, but the starched edges still look like they could put an eye out. Dave drains his flute just as quickly as she and steps into her arms.

“The great, world-famous Dave Strider. And I have him all to myself,” she says, grabbing the lapels of his tux and kissing him on the lips. 

“I’m glad you remembered my title this time,” mumbles Dave between her kisses. 

“Mmm. You taste good. Like berries, but a bit sour. It’s a shame.”

“What’s a shame?”

“That this’ll be the last time,” says Terezi. “We’ll never see each other again after this afternoon.”

Dave backs up slightly. “Pyrope? What are you talking about now? Does this have to do with what Sollux--”

“Not another word.” Terezi’s hands find her cane, drawing her blade. With a broad sweep she brings the blade within a millimeter of his jugular vein.

Dave curses himself for failing to wear his PPK under his tuxedo jacket. He’s completely defenseless. “Okay. What the hell? If this is a joke, I’m _not_ laughing.”

“It certainly has been a hell of an adventure,” says Terezi, frowning. Her Spanish accent has fallen away, and what remains is no sort of accent Dave’s ever heard in person-- he realizes with a start it’s pure Alternian. “And certain information came up that I can’t allow you to simply walk around with. Information about my true employer.” She applies a slight pressure to Dave’s neck, leading him around in a semicircle until his back is to the edge of the building. “Walk.”

Dave doesn’t budge. “Wait. Is this about Doc Scratch? _You_ work for The Felt?”

“I don’t _work_ for The Felt. I _work_ for who _The Felt_ work for. I _work_ for Lord English. And Scratch has made what he wanted abundantly clear. It’s too bad Sollux was too much of an idiot to do his job without The Legislacerators getting involved... but as soon as they put me on the case his fate was sealed anyway.”

“Wait, so-- Scratch hired Sollux to nuke all those cities,” Says Dave, gritting his teeth at the bite of the blade. “But if he wanted to do it without arousing a whole ton of suspicion, why the youtube video?”

“Don’t ask me how that guy thinks. He probably thought it would distract the world’s law enforcement agencies so he could do the rest without getting caught. You have to admit, it almost worked, too. I didn’t want to tell you, but the chances of the Navy actually shooting down any of his missiles was next to none. He wrote all kinds of scramblers into their guidance systems, they’re probably only just now discovering them. Come to think of it, that information might be worth a fortune to the right parties...”

“Ok, whatever, but why did you have to kill him? He was going to prison, he wasn’t going to hurt anyone ever again!”

“That’s the problem, Dave. He didn’t hurt _anyone_. He didn’t do his _job_. And my cover was more valuable than his life. I had to kill him at the last minute there to maintain the guise of a Legislacerator, only it was all for nothing, ‘cause now I have to go do it _for_ him, not to mention thanks to that Russian _bitch_ I have a whole _list_ of people who know about the Lord who need to die as well. You’re first. She’s next.”

“Kanaya? No! She never did anything-- _augh!”_ Dave can’t suppress a cry as her blade cuts a deep gash on his cheek. 

“I said walk. Backwards,” Terezi barks. Dave complies.

“Trying to stage a suicide? What are they going to think when they find this cut during the autopsy?” smirks Dave. If he’s going out, might as well go out laughing.

“There isn’t going to _be_ an autopsy, you fucking idiot, I’m a fucking Legislacerator. I didn’t get here in time to stop you from jumping off the roof, and that’s that. There isn’t going to be a _funeral_ , let alone a case.”

Dave shuffles back as slowly as he can, racking his brain for any way he can get out of this situation. As he takes a last step back, his heel finds only air. Now or never.

Strider ducks low and crouches forward, aiming a quick punch at Terezi’s stomach. But faster than he can see, she catches his fist, winds her cane around his elbow, and with a sudden jerk breaks the joint. She tosses his writhing form to the ground, then lifts him by the collar of his shirt and drags him, bleeding, to the edge.

Dave howls in pain, clutching his broken arm and staring at the woman. “You _psycho_! You _bitch_! I saved your _life_!”

“I was never in any real danger. You really don’t get it, do you? I see every outcome, I think through every ending. I’ve allowed for every method you might use to escape, and eliminated them one by one.” Her expression softens slightly. “The only thing that wasn’t a lie... the only part that was really real... was what I said about rule number four. Too bad you’ll never know what it was.” She chuckles, a dark laugh Dave’s never heard from her. “Now it’s been a blast knowing you, Dave Strider, but it’s time for you to die.” Effortlessly, she casts him off the edge. 

Terezi’s impassive face grows smaller and smaller as Dave falls away from it, as if in slow motion. Rushing wind comprises the whole of his hearing and the pain in his arm keeps him from even flailing. Like a rag doll, he simply falls, spinning very slightly, in time to see the street below. The last thing he’ll ever see, he realizes slowly. But then, below, a window opens, and something broad and white sticks out from it. He’s heading right for it-- _what is that?_

Dave lands on what turns out to be a mattress, and the very moment he makes impact strong hands grab him and yank him inside. A new wave of pain washes over him, not stopping at his arm, and as soon as he rolls onto his side be begins to vomit and doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left in his stomach and he’s dry-heaving.

“Hell of way to say thanks! I don’t even want to kiss you now!” a shrill female voice says. Sounds like a troll. Dave risks a glance.

Vriska Serket stands before him, dressed as ever in evening wear, a light film of sweat across her brow but otherwise no worse for wear. 

“S-- Sorry.” Dave coughs out, unable to even lift his head.

“Shh. No need to say anything. If you’d barfed on me, though, that would be a different story!” she says, laughing. “Now come on. Let’s get you someplace safe.”

“Terezi-- Gonna kill Kanaya-- gotta stop ‘er--” Dave mumbles, but he can’t fight the wave of darkness that swallows him. Within seconds all is black.

 

O+O+O+O+O

 

  
  


Day breaks, and Dave attempts to get out of bed. He fails completely.

Vriska comes into the room, carrying a tray. She places it by the side of Dave’s bed-- oh, he’s in a bed-- and sits down beside him. The change in the mattress’ topography causes his arm to throb, but he realizes there’s no actual pain.

“‘Morning, sleepyhorns!” she grins, displaying a mouth full of sharp fangs. “I made Human breakfast. By which I mean I ordered it from room service.”

“What the--” begins Dave.

“If you’re worried about the cost, don’t be. I don’t plan on actually paying my bill here. The service is _awful!_ ”

The events of last night swim back into Dave’s head. “Oh God-- Terezi! Is Kanaya OK? What about John and Rose?”

“Woah there, champ! _Eeeeeeeeasy_! First things first. After you went lights-out, I was able to call Kanaya in time to get her and the Egberts out of the city, probably the country too. I think they’re heading to Russia or some shit. Before you freak out, no, you haven’t been out for days, it’s only been like twelve hours.”

“Well that’s something.”

“Unfortunately, not everything is peaches and cream. You should know the Legislacerators’ Chief was murdered, and Feferi Peixes has escaped.”

“What? Was it her?”

Vriska shrugs. “Had to be. No one knows where she is now. She just vanished, like a ghost. I really don’t know what to tell you. She does that.” Vriska frowns slightly.

“Cut off the head, huh… This way she’ll be harder to follow. Still, it’s a shame. I liked that guy. Wait, hang on. How the hell did you know how to save me?”

“Terezi give you a speech about ‘seeing all the angles’? Something like _‘I see every outcome, I think through every ending’_?” She adopts a convincing Spanish accent for this line, which earns a smile from Dave. 

“Yeah. Exactly like that.”

“She missed one. The one outcome she’d never have predicted. The one where I feel bad about my past and want to change. I made some calls, hacked some websites, jacked into some satellite feeds. It wasn’t hard to figure out what she was going to do when you know her way of thinking as well as I do. As for which room to wait in to catch you... well, I do have aaaaaaaall the luck, after all.” She gives Dave a wink. “Now get some rest, I’m going to take a shower.”

The tall troll woman starts peeling off her clothing even as she’s crossing the luxurious hotel room to the bathroom, affording Dave a view of more and more smooth gray skin by the second. “Maaaaaaaan! I can’t stand that little runt, with her ruuuuuuuules and her stupid justice complex. What’s her deal!?” At this, she clicks the door shut.

 _Rules_. The word jogs something in Dave’s memory as he remembers _rule number four_ for the first time. He reaches for his phone-- charging on the side table-- and dials Aradia.

“Dave! It’s been forever, how _are_ you?!” His secretary’s voice rings crisp and clear.

“I’m alive, and I’m never taking that for granted again. Listen, I need you to look up something for me.”

“Anything!”

“On the list of Terezi’s rules. The long one, not the short one you made. What was number four?”

Aradia laughs through the receiver. “What? What’s this about?” Her tone is jokingly scolding. “You two getting up to something I shouldn’t be hearing about?”

“Dammit, Aradia, what _is_ it?”

She begins to recite. “ _Rule number four_. No active Legislacerator may possess flushed feelings for any partner, including but not limited to Humans of either gender.”

Dave is silent.

“You know, Mr. Strider, There’s no rule like this in _my_ contract. Maybe when you get back to London I should have a _surprise_ planned?” She giggles. “Or better yet! Tell me which prison Sollux ended up in and I can pay him a conjugal visit!”

“Sollux is dead.”

“ _What?_ Why wasn’t I told?” the girl shrieks.

“Things are a mess here. The Legislacerators’ chief is dead too. And my arm is broken, I’ll need to schedule two weeks’ convalescent leave. Here in New York. I’m at the Waldorf, by the looks of things.”

“Um-- okay, got it. Are you really alright?”

“I’m fine. I’ve got someone to take care of me. Email me the itinerary for my trip back to London in two weeks. As for the surprise, _surprise_! You get a promotion, and as long as I’m on leave, you are too, paid. Talk to accounting for me.”

“Wow. Thanks, sir!”

“That’ll be all. Have a nice couple of weeks.” Dave hangs up.

 _So she’s out there, somewhere._ Probably on her way to Moldova, preparing God-knows-what kind of scheme with a deranged lunatic, a mansion full of freaks and a mastermind who might be from his own backyard. Assuming his friends made it out OK-- and he really hopes it’s not too much to assume-- he only has to worry about how long it’ll be before the next threat of global destruction. And he feels pretty safe in assuming who they’re going to call when that happens. 

The sound of the shower dies from within the bathroom, and Vriska emerges in just a towel and a cloud of steam, shaking him from his ruminations. “Well now, Agent Strider. Seems I’ve got you caught in my web! Now _whaaaaaaaat_ should I do with _yoooooooou_?”

“Whatever it is, by all means take your time,” says Dave, turning off his phone and tossing it off to the side. “Saving the world can wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it! Over 100 pages later and I'm finally done with Bondstuck 2. I know this type of story isn't everyone's cup of tea (even though I totally threw some boys kissing into it, which is really not MY cup of tea) but the reception has been pretty good! I ended this story with a lot of openings for a sequel because I'd love to write a 3rd story, and I already have some plans. But before I do that I'm going to work on an original story I've been developing for some time now, so don't hold your breath.
> 
> I'd like to thank Andrew Hussie for creating Homestuck, Sir Ian Fleming for creating James Bond, my sister Roachpatrol for introducing me to the wonders of fanfiction and writing some of this fandom's best AU work (seriously, go read Hemostuck now) and for editing each chapter, the US Air Force for housing and feeding me throughout this process and only asking 10-12 hours of hard work a day in exchange, my friends and classmates for not making fun of me for writing fanfiction (much), and Mainland China for having an awesome language that's fun to learn, if not gut-wrenchingly difficult at times.
> 
> I'd also like to thank a few authors on AO3 for consistently putting out fantastic works that inspire me to improve and do my best. ParaTactitian, sunbreaksdown, UrbanAnchorite, and I know there are more but I should keep this short-- Seriously, you all need to go get book deals.
> 
> Finally, thank you for reading! You could have read most of an actual book in the hours it must have taken you to read this but the fact you thought this work was just as worthy of your time means so much to me. I hope you'll leave a comment expressing your opinion on this story and the direction you'd like to see this series go in the future. Thanks again and goodnight.


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